The Red Hood and the Robin
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: Death was supposed to be the end, but for me, Jason Todd, it was only the beginning. I do not care whether I got there through time-travel or through dimensional-jumping; things are doomed to go to Hell anyhow, especially so with the interference. And I am NOT playing the hero, god dammit! 1st person POV.
1. Chapter One

_For any readers of my previous works (in the categories of DGM, Hetalia or HP), this might be a "For Goodness Sake, Stop Starting up New Fics before You've Finished Your Older Ones"-kind of moment. However, in my defence, this fic has been complete for months and has just been collecting imaginary dust on my hard drive. Hence, posting it – all three chapters of it – won't interfere with my other writing._

_For any new readers – as well as old ones – greetings, I'm Hane no Zaia. This is my first fic in the Batman/Young Justice universe, and I do hope it's readable. In any case, if you've got the time and will, feel free to give it a read and judge for yourself whether it is a story deserving of your review(s)._

_Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**I**

**- o0o -**

Somehow, I always knew I would never die peacefully.

I was a kid of the streets; and recent changes in accommodation aside, I see that I will be staying true to my origin, all the way through.

Street kids rarely die peacefully. If they do, then they drop off to their eternal rest by an overdose or they get smothered in their sleep by their less than ideal parents; that is, if they ever had any in the first place. Street kids tend to die violently, in Gotham at least. Some get run over by cars, some get involved with the gangs and others, others just end up making trouble for themselves in other ways, making trouble of themselves so that they need to be disposed of.

I was one of the latter.

I would've liked to think that my troubles began the day when I tried stealing a couple of tyres I shouldn't have, but in truth it probably began much earlier than that. Even so, that day was probably the one which sealed my fate and which sent me heading down a spiral which would eventually lead me to my own destruction. From that day and onwards, I tried to be different – tried to be someone else – but in the end I died violently, like the street kid I was, at the hands of a madman armed with a bucket load of insanity and a crowbar. However, neither killed me directly; their combined force did beat me within an inch of my life, but in the end it was the blast that killed me.

00:21…

00:14…

00:09…

He was coming for me, I knew that, somehow. He was coming for me, but it was already too late; I knew he wouldn't make it. The bomb exploded before he could reach me.

**- o0o -**

I was fifteen when I died, or at least I think I was; my memories are all jumbled up and confusing.

I was fifteen – or at least I think I was – when I died, or at least I think I did; with things being the way they are, I can't really be sure of anything anymore.

**- o0o -**

I woke up to a world of pain, drugged out of my own mind. It took quite a while before I was coherent enough to understand what was going on around me, and once I did, my confusion increased tenfold.

I was back in Gotham – Gotham of all places – years previous to the day I died, and it was about then that I realised that I had somehow ended up in my own personal Hell. Even so, it was only later on that I would come to realise the full extent of it.

Not quite knowing what to do with me, social services had me put in an institution, and over there I made a name for myself. The other boys – a cowardly bunch, the lot of them, finding courage in numbers and in tormenting those weaker than them – tried messing with me and I showed them why messing with me is a really bad idea in general. Hence, the people in charge of that place put me down as "violent when provoked", which is true enough, but an understatement nonetheless.

Anyhow, after that little episode, the other morons in this place knew their place and kept their distance, and that was the way I generally preferred things, even though I still found myself craving a decent fight sometimes.

Oh yes, I did refer to this place as my own personal Hell, didn't I?

Stay around and you'll find out why.

**- o0o -**

From the rather violent and exaggerated way in which I perished, I had already concluded that the divine entity I had never really bothered with – God, you know – hated me and did so with passion. However, up until that day I had yet to realise the full extent of that hatred. That day was the day when a maybe ten-year-old Dick Grayson – Goldie, the first Robin, in the flesh – was shoved into the room – aka cell – I had previously occupied all on my own, and a perky – aka sadistic – supervisor informed me that he was going to be my new roommate.

With all due truthfulness, I would have considered it a mercy if they had just brought out a gun and shot me in the head right then and there. Then again, I realised while surveying the red-rimmed eyes of my dejected predecessor, maybe it would have been the most merciful to shoot _him_ then and there and spare _him_ of the torment of living his life in this hellhole with _me_ as a roomie. With a critical eye, I surveyed his pathetic self, his frame trembling slightly from fear and his eyes glistening from unshed tears, and I realised that the kid wouldn't last a day in this place if he remained in the state that he was. I shouldn't have cared, but somehow I did, and before I knew what I was doing I had crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his shivering frame. It was rather uncharacteristic of me, I admit, but at the time I failed to care; I was dead after all, so what I did and did not do did not matter.

Hands curled into fists, clutching the fabric of my t-shirt, clinging to me desperately as the brat – the young promising acrobat who had only just lost the comforts of his loving parents – continued to sob and proceeded to cry his heart out. The side of my neck and the area close to the neck lining of my t-shirt got wet, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was dead after all, and dead people really don't have to care about such stuff.

**- o0o -**

The kid had nightmares.

I wouldn't have cared about that, but the brat kept waking me up all the time with his thrashing and screaming and whatnot.

I got up and climbed down from the top bunk I had commandeered. Feet impacting on the cold floor below, I paused, my light-sensitive eyes falling on the tear tracks visible on the brat's cheeks as he thrashed and moved about, his mouth opening slightly to make way for a silent scream.

I was never the caring type, never the comforting type; I had always minded my own business and never really cared about things or people outside of that. I had never been a hero; I had just been masquerading as one, and I had never been a brother either, even though the Dick I had known had eventually put me down as such, instating himself as the big brother. The Dick I had known – or rather known of, since I did not see him all that often even back when I was alive – had been older; how old, I could not remember. The Dick I had known had been a hero – a periodically angst-filled and adolescent one, yes, but still a hero in every kind of way. Goldie, both Bruce's and Batman's Golden Boy – their favourite – the Boy Wonder I myself could never become.

Bitterness may have filled me back then, but back then I was still alive enough to care about such things. Dying really helps putting things into perspective, even though death itself might not turn out to be as permanent as promised.

Regardless of which, the Dick Grayson before me was no Robin and he was certainly no Nightwing. He was just a freshly traumatised little kid who had been dumped into a godforsaken pit filled with poisonous snakes or into a den of starved lions. It was bloody obvious that he wouldn't last. _Wonderful, just absolutely wonderful_, I thought to myself, pinching the bridge of my nose as the load draped over my lap shifted slightly before once again going almost completely still, breathing regular slow and steady breaths. My legs were falling asleep on me, but moving about would've woken up the kid all over again so I remained in the same position, staring out into the darkness while contemplating things. If I recalled things correctly, it would only be a question of time before Bruce came around to check on the kid anyhow, meaning that he would soon be out of my hair, or at least so I hoped.

Bruce was coming for him, I honestly thought he would, but as days came and went and no one showed up, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands.

Earlier, making a full recovery from the extensive beating I had suffered at the hands of the madman who killed me had kept me reasonably distracted from making any plans to bust out from this place.

Later, the subsequent arrival of Dickiebird had served a similar purpose.

However, by the time I realised that the Bat wasn't coming, I had once again set to work on making my escape.

I escaped three days later.

For whatever reason, I took the young robin with me.

**- o0o -**

My decision to drag Dickiebird with me back out into the real world was probably a great lapse of judgement on my part, but then again, I had already decided not to dwell too much on the past. Even so, we lived, even though we by no means thrived.

I took up stealing again, and after a while Dickiebird joined in; it proved hard for him, initially at least, since the righteous principles which had been hammered into him at some point took some time and effort to break. Even so, overall I found it surprisingly easy to corrupt this Golden Boy of all things good and righteous, but I never saw the point in pushing him to do anything. I walked, he followed; I demonstrated, he imitated. Perhaps he saw a survival guide to the streets in me and stuck to me for such a reason, perhaps he did so because he imagined there was some sort of emotional bond between us, that we were attached to each other in some way. Either way, I failed to care which and let him believe whatever he wanted to believe. Perhaps this was a grave mistake on my part, perhaps not, but either way he stuck around.

One of the earliest things I discovered about Dickiebird was that his Golden Boy tendencies aside, he could very much be taught to see reason. For one thing, Dickiebird proved to have much less qualms about stealing from criminals than from other folks, and I saw the worth in that, mostly since the run-of-the-mill criminals of our district probably possessed at least one or two or a dozen items I found myself craving. For another thing, I discovered that somewhere along the way, Goldie had learnt about vengeance.

I was the one to pull the trigger.

Reloading the handgun, I stepped back to admire my achievement. Anthony "Tony" Zucco's brains were splattered all over the wall behind him, and I found myself wondering why I wasn't getting sick over and over at the sight or at the dawning prospect of this utterly vile deed of mine. With all due truthfulness, I should have been doing what Dick – No, Robin – was doing, aka emptying the contents of my stomach out a nearby window. I should have done that, but I found that I didn't really feel anything, not even as I registered the fact that I had just levelled up from being a mere thief to becoming an actual murderer in this world. Then again, I realised, as I put the gun away and measured a kick to the guy's head for the mere kicks of it, I was probably a rotten apple all along, a criminal masquerading as a hero.

Besides, for some reason I felt like I had owed Dickiebird a favour, and even if Zucco had been brought to justice with his brain still intact it would only have been a question of time before he would have been out terrorising the streets again, with the cops as corrupt as they were.

It may not have been a pretty kind of justice – it had been nothing at all like the ideal, lawful way mainstream society would've liked – but it had been swift and it had been permanent. At least this way, Zucco himself would never make another kid an orphan, even though it meant that my own hands had to be tainted to ensure that. In return, I had become a murderer, and I didn't even feel bad about it.

As I mentioned earlier, dying really helps putting things into perspective, and as such, I knew much better than anyone what a fickle and fragile thing life is. My own life had been extinguished once and I knew the feeling of everything just slipping away, echoing off into nothingness, just as I knew the pain of returning. I had died – been killed, murdered – yet I had returned, though not as an avenging angel but rather as a grim reaper in disguise.

I adjusted the hood of my red hoodie, heading off to fetch Robin. We needed to get out after all, before people arrived, bringing trouble with them.

**- o0o -**

I cannot recall exactly when oddity became normalcy in my continued existence, but I experienced this odd sense of déjà vu when I one day, bearing a crowbar, encountered the eerily familiar shape of the batmobile in an alley I had intended on passing through. I paused in my stride, staring at it with both feelings of nostalgia and feelings of distaste – mostly the latter – recalling that fateful day a long time ago – in the future – in another time. For a brief moment, I considered it, weighing the crowbar in my hands, but then I shrugged it off and walked past it; Robin was waiting for me, waiting for my return, and getting kidnapped by the Bat had never been very high amongst my priorities.

Momentarily, I entertained the thought of bringing Robin there, hoping it would somehow whisk him off to a better life with Bruce Wayne, but I reasoned that if Bruce hadn't bothered coming for Dick while he was at the institution, the man deserved no Robin to look after. Perhaps time and whatever madness death might have inflicted on me had made me sentimental, but for whatever reason, I almost liked the kid by then, almost. Or rather, I liked him enough not to cart him off to live with Bruce Wayne on a whim, even though I knew somewhere that it would probably have been better for him if I had.

From that day and onwards, whatever paranoia I might've worked up beforehand increased tenfold. I kept seeing shadows out of the corner of my eye sometimes, and sensing danger I found myself wanting to keep Robin close, within my sight, all while I also found that I wanted to distance myself, to distance myself so that he wouldn't be dragged into whatever was after me.

I cannot recall which alternative I went for in the end, but supposedly, the result would've been the same anyway.

**- o0o -**

I don't think, I don't feel, I just am. I lie motionless, beaten and bruised, my red hoodie even redder than it used to be.

Robin is crying. I find this mildly upsetting for some reason, but at the same time I am relieved, because he is not injured, just restrained.

Somehow, I know the Bat – the Dark Knight – will come for him, that he will arrive in time to save the trapped little bird, and that he will bring it back to the cave and piece it back together before letting it fly freely once more. Somehow, I know that he will come – he didn't come for me in time, but he'll come for Dick, of that I am certain, just as I am certain that he will make it in time to save the robin.

As for the bleeding jay with broken wings lying on the floor, I am still highly pessimistic.

I don't think, I don't feel, I just am. I lie motionless, beaten and bruised, darkness steadily closing in on me, ready to swallow me up at any point in time. Strangely enough, I find an odd kind of comfort in that, that in the end, the thick darkness of death is right there, waiting, eager to welcome me into its loving embrace and hopefully not let go of me this time around.

I was a street kid – I still am – and street kids rarely die peacefully. The means which bring about my second demise are violent, but I feel strangely at peace with it all, strangely reassured by the fact that death is ready for me this time around.

Street kids tend to die violently, in Gotham at least, and I was – I am – no exception.

A crowbar – stained in crimson by blood, my blood – rushes down towards me as I close my eyes, a part of me almost eager to leave this ugly world behind, eager to forget the visage of a psychopath who will have killed me twice by the time this is over with. Being killed by the same madman twice; talk about irony, not to mention overkill.

As I said earlier, that day I tried stealing some tyres I shouldn't have was probably the one which sealed my fate and which sent me heading down a spiral which would eventually lead me to my own destruction, but even so, I cannot help but think that I too helped it along somewhere along the way.

I had tried to be different, I had tried to be someone else, but in the end I still died violently, like the street kid I was, at the hands of a madman armed with a bucket load of insanity and a crowbar.

Now, rinse and repeat, the madman is back to finish the job, because last time around he got a bit sloppy. Back then, it had ultimately been the blast that had killed me.

Now… 13… 12… 11…

Unlike last time… 10… 9… 8…

This time around…7… 6… 5…

There is no one coming to save me. 4… 3… 2… 1…

**- o0o -**

I was a street kid – I still am – and street kids rarely die peacefully.

I died violently the first time around, beaten within an inch of my life before being blown up; it really doesn't get much better than that.

The second time around, I didn't really die at all, though certainly not for lack of effort on the part of my aggressor, I can assure you.

Batman dropped in to save the day, disarming the bomb before proceeding to beat the Joker up while Robin, freed from his bonds, rushed to my side.

**- o0o -**

I don't think, I don't feel, I just am. I lie motionless, beaten, bruised and bloody like some disturbing piece of art.

"_The Death of the Red Hood, perhaps,"_ I muse inwardly, tilting my head slightly to the side even thought it pains me, contemplating it.

Robin is crying again, and yelling at me too from the looks of it, but I really can't tell since I can't hear anything and my sight is blurring and darkening in this very moment.

I have no strength left; it has left me already, pouring out onto the floor or vanishing in the face of cracked bones and battered tissue. Even so, something commands me to reach out and I do so, using what little strength might've remained within me. My fingertips ghost across his cheek and he flinches; I imagine they're cold, because I feel really cold. He rapidly recovers however, seizing my hand, grasping it tightly. He is saying something again. I can see his lips moving, vaguely, but I can't hear anything; white noise and silence intermingle within me as darkness – Death – takes hold of my other hand, holding it gently while waiting for me to breathe my last so that I can leave this world behind and be guided to wherever Death leads me.

**- o0o -**

I died violently the first time around.

The second time around, I didn't really die at all.

The third time however… well… you know what they say, with the third time being the charm and all, right?

Warm hands – I can't exactly feel them being warm, but I imagine they are – hold mine – limp and cold – between them, sharing imagined warmth.

If a person could ever die happy, I imagine this is about as close as it gets. Sounds corny, I know, but can you truly blame a dying man?

Even so, I cannot help but wonder why life – however ugly, miserable and outright troublesome it may have been – always tempt you so when it is already out of your reach.

That's a rather good question actually, now that I think of it. I have to remember to ask my Maker about it if I ever meet him, right after I spit him in the face.

**- o0o -**

I was a street kid, and street kids rarely die peacefully.

I did, but it took three times to do the trick and it's nothing I can recommend because dying hurts like a bitch… sometimes.

However, in the end, it's not death itself that you should be worried about; the thing you should really worry about is coming back to life again, like I did.

In one way or another, death changes you, and changes are not always for the better; at least that's what I think.

My name is Jason, Jason Peter Todd, but no one really calls me that anymore.

I am the Red Hood, and I am here to stay apparently, for better or for worse.

**- o0o -**

Death changes you, and dying not once but twice ought to fuck you up real good on the inside.

Death changes you, and it's not always for the better.

Regardless of whether you're the one to go or if it's another, death leaves no one untouched.

Death changed me, and in a way I became death itself, or at least a grim reaper sent out to do its bidding. I am forever tainted by it, and so is everything I touch. Hence I am alone in my continued existence, making sure I touch no one with my bare hands. Black leather gloves conceal them, but these hands of death of mine do it anyhow, deliver judgement whenever I see fit. The safety is off and I take aim, my index finger ready to press the trigger. I do, and the shot rings out followed by several others, and then all is silent once more.

I am death personified, a grim reaper dressed in red and black, but instead of a scythe I carry guns and knives and cords to do my bidding. I need none of those though, not really; I could kill with my bare hands if I wanted to, but for whatever reason, having an arsenal – small, but efficient – at my disposal is just the way I do things.

My time as Robin in my first life taught me to always be prepared, hence I am, even though I know that I have very little to fear from death.

Speaking of which, Gotham is no longer my turf.

The Bat and his bird proved a bit too enthusiastic in their efforts to bring me in once they learned of my apparent resurrection, so I decided to go off and explore a bit of wider territory.

In the end, Blüdhaven, in all its grimy and gory glory, became my temporary place of residence.

For one thing, it was because of the high crime rates; if one is looking for good hunting grounds, it only makes sense to go where there's prey, right?

Secondly, it suffered a distinct lack of a protector; I myself had no intention whatsoever to become that protector, but because there was none and because the police force was even more corrupt and more incompetent than Gotham's, there was no actual competition and as such I could go about doing my work as I pleased.

My current lifestyle has made me nocturnal, because even the undead have to sleep sometime, and for me that time is a few precious hours of the day. At night-time, I lurk in the shadows and more often than not, my life is a waiting game with me positioning myself somewhere – in alleyways, in warehouses, on rooftops – waiting for my intended target to show up so that I can dispose of them quickly and then disappear back into the night with the deed done and no one the wiser. I say "intended target", but in truth I rarely plan very far ahead, so I mostly pick my targets as I cross paths with them; this applies to the small fry at least, because hunting them down on purpose would seem kind of pointless since they are dime a dozen in a place like this.

As for the big fish, tracking them down is rarely much of a hassle; the hassle lies in waiting for the opportune moment to strike, since patience has never been one of my strong points. Still, I know the value of doing at least some planning ahead and most of all, I know about fear. My time with the Bat back in my first life may have been cut short in a rather gruesome fashion, but the lessons he taught me about fear seem to have left quite a big impression on me.

With the big fish, timing is of essence, because if you can get that one right, you will strike fear in those that remain in eliminating just one of them; if you can get away with what you're doing undetected and eliminate all those who've caught more than just a glimpse of you, they will fear you because you're an unseen assassin and a rarely glimpsed shadow which leaves a trail of bodies in its wake.

I knew I wouldn't be able to remain hidden forever, not with the track record I had going and with the trail of blood which followed along with it, but I have to admit that I was surprised when I coincidentally picked up a newspaper while I was out to restock my food supplies and found a picture – enlarged and blurry, but still a picture – of myself exiting the scene of the crescendo of one of my most recent hunts.

"**Red Hood Revealed"** the headline read, and I scoffed inwardly as I moved along.

Apparently, some hardworking journalist or lucky amateur had managed to snap a picture of me in all my hooded glory, but that was hardly enough to reveal me. The red hoodie itself was generic and by no means incriminating by itself and the hood had done its job in shielding my face from prying eyes. The Bat had his cowl, and I had my hood, and even if someone did manage to tear that off it wouldn't matter much anyhow since I had a domino mask beneath it anyway. Besides, I was dead after all – dead, buried and resurrected – so the prospect of being unmasked and to have my true identity displayed for all the world to see did not intimidate me all that much to be completely honest.

That photograph – however blurry it may have been – still held consequences however, and before long I had the Bat running around in my backyard. Robin also turned up after a while, but I was by no means delighted at being graced by the presence of either. Having been left to my own devices for so long, I did not find the competition welcome in the least and I liked it even less because the Bat and the Robin had not turned up with the specific purpose to clean up the city of Blüdhaven; they had obviously come to hunt me down, either with the purpose of bringing me to justice or with the purpose of bringing me in for treatment and it would suffice to say that I would appreciate neither.

I don't appreciate interference; I never have, and I especially do not appreciate interference from an overgrown bat and an overly concerned and utterly misguided bird wreaking havoc in my hunting grounds. They're good at what they're doing and they've nearly nabbed me a couple of times already, but even though they make an excellent team I still have the advantage of fighting on my home turf; I know the layout and the workings of this city like the back of my hand, and my familiarity with their future counterparts allow me to predict their movements to a limited degree, something which neither of them is able to do to me because I do not have a pattern, or not a very solid one at any rate; I am erratic and impulsive, yet also cunning, so I imagine myself to be quite a puzzle for the Dark Knight to figure out.

Still, though I hide well and avoid them to the best of my ability, they still have the advantage of knowing what my real face looks like, meaning that unlike with the others in my hunting grounds, I will not be able to shed my identity simply by pushing down the hood. I might be a bit older now compared to back when I died the second time around, but outwardly I really haven't changed that much.

Then again, I could just drop this stupid game of hide and seek and just have a go at shooting them or something, but even though death has changed me a whole lot, I find that I am still not dead enough to kill them, even though I know well that these people are a bit different from those I knew. Even so, I muse, I could probably just shoot to injure and see if that'd keep them the Hell away from me. Then again, with me being the screwed up person I am, I don't ever really do things halfway now, do I?

Having tracked me down for the umpteenth time in these last couple of weeks, Robin lands on the rooftop where I have lain in wait. He has a look around, his eyes seeking me, but I keep to the shadows and calmly take aim. I suppose I should have some sort of qualms about killing the person whose future counterpart once instated himself as my oldest brother, but as I said, death changes you, and I don't really have qualms about anything anymore. I press the trigger, only to be rewarded with a slight click informing me that I've run out of bullets.

Snorting inwardly, I dash forward with great speed and before he realises what's going on I've already rammed the butt of the gun into his temple, effectively knocking him out. The force of it is enough to send him toppling over the edge of the building, but before he is able to do so I find that my own hand has shot out, grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him back from it.

The next thing I know, his body slumps against mine and with a surprising amount of gentleness I ease him down into a seated position, leaning his back up against the wall. Momentarily, my fingertips press against his throat, confirming his pulse before moving upwards, tilting his head a bit to the side so that I get a better view of whatever damage I've dealt his temple. I only need to take one look at it to confirm that it's probably going to hurt like a bitch once he wakes up, but that is of no concern to me and I withdraw, determined to make my getaway before an angry Daddy Bats turns up to kick my ass.

**- o0o -**

I am not a hero, not by any means. I might be a villain, but then again, I've never really cared for labels and even though people have labelled me a lot of things, few of those tend to stick for very long.

Then again, if I am a villain who hunts other villains then I might as well start calling myself a vigilante, because I do fight crime – kind of – though mostly by eliminating those involved in it. I care little whether they're regular dealers or crime lords, because I do not allow morality to get in the way of my own sense of judgement.

You see, crime lords are a problem; they are like a cancerous tumour upon society, gradually killing it with blackmail and bought influence. Even if they are arrested and "brought to justice" as they say, they will soon be back out on the streets anyway, doing the things they have always done. Few – none in my opinion – reform and turn to more lawful ways, and as such, confining them for a limited amount of time is pointless if they're just going to go back out and continue from where they left off.

Criminals, regardless of whether they are small-fry or big fish, are problems, and society's way of dealing with them is highly ineffective. Putting them through prison and treatment is like putting a band-aid on an already festering wound; it looks like it's doing something, but it has no real effect.

Society's way of dealing with crime is highly ineffective. My way is swift, highly efficient and thoroughly illegal, but even though I myself am very much a criminal I strive to contain this cancer of society rather than spread it even wider than it already is, but sometimes I fail to see why I bother in the first place; I'm dead after all, so why should I care about what happens to society anyway?

It's a bit ironic, isn't it?

I keep on dying over and over because I meddle, but for whatever reason, I can't seem to stop.

I am not a hero, not by any means, and that is a fact which is not lost on the costume-clad freaks that from time to time turn up inside my territory. Most of the time, they're only in Blüdhaven to pursue some particular criminal in the first place, but it is not lost on me that they are a bit unnerved by my presence. Some have even tried to hunt me down and bring me to justice as they see it, failing to see that few of them stand a chance at catching me inside my own territory.

I may not have super speed, super strength, X-ray vision or any of those other fancy abilities or gimmicks, and my arsenal is limited to that which I can either acquire or craft by myself. Still, seeing to the fact that the Bat himself – hailed as the world's greatest detective and whatnot – hasn't caught me yet, I am probably quite hard to catch. It's either that or due to lack of effort on his part.

Or, as I came to realise when Superman the Boy Scout turned up to try his luck at bringing me in, I just have a really enthusiastic fan base. I have died twice and seen a whole bunch of things in life, both in this one and in my previous ones, but I must admit that I have never seen the Big Blue be peppered with rotten eggs by civilians of all things – children, pregnant women even – yelling at him to leave me the Hell alone and go back to Metropolis.

"You're not wanted here, you alien asshole!" they shouted. "This city needs only one hero and that's the Red Hood!"

Heroes, for whatever reason, always seem to be strangely concerned with the opinion of the public, but then again, that very opinion is probably what separates most of them from the criminals themselves. As such, few heroes – Batman being one of the exceptions – deal well with unfavourable publicity, and in the face of the possible scandal, Superman let me go and sped off – presumably with the tail between his legs – leaving me to deal with the aftermath.

A bit concussed as I was, I then came to learn of the reason as to why my homicidal hide was suddenly so very popular amongst a fair deal of the population of Blüdhaven; apparently, my nightly killing sprees amongst the worst criminals the city had to offer had ensured a drastic and likely permanent drop in the crime rates, enabling women and children to venture into the streets after dark without necessarily risk getting kidnapped, raped or murdered while doing so.

Unintentionally or not, I had become a hero – or at least they had come to view me as such – and they wouldn't take no for an answer, somehow managing to haul me in and cart me off to the nearest hospital. Normally, I would've killed them – that much goes without saying – and I would've done so with my bare hands, but having your head repeatedly smashed into brick walls, the pavement and most of all the thickest skull in the universe – _Note to self: Never ever attempt to headbutt an alien_ – can make you a bit woozy, especially in combination with whatever painkillers people kept stuffing down your throat because said thick-headed alien had apparently managed to break a few bones in his perfectly justifiable quest to see me brought to justice.

I spent the next week or so more or less incapacitated, pumped up on painkillers and whatnot. I really can't say I enjoyed it very much, but I have to say that I did enjoy it a tiny bit more when one of the nurses turned up with a laptop tucked under her arm and then proceeded to show me just what had taken place those last couple of days.

Apparently, someone – I strongly suspect my newly discovered fan base was behind this – had launched a massive hate campaign against Superman and the rest of the Justice League, both on the Internet and in the local media. It shouldn't have amused me, but somehow it did even though I could see the credibility of this so called Justice League suffering from the public outrage that was in certain areas when someone – either someone who'd been present at the scene of the fight or someone who'd treated me at the hospital – leaked copies of a report cataloguing the multiple injuries I had suffered at the hands of the Man of Steel, along with another report stating that I had admitted to being underage when interviewed by hospital personnel – I can't say that I have any recollection of ever having participated in such an interview, but then again, when you're doped up on morphine I imagine you can say just about anything…

Anyhow, regardless of how they got that piece of information out of me – they could have just guessed, I suppose – the result was the same and I, scanning the headlines of the online editions of a few of the newspaper agencies operating in the area, found that some journalists – not all, not many, not by any means – had twisted and bent the scenario and were reporting to the public that Superman had beaten up a local _under-aged_ vigilante in a misguided attempt to bring about justice and that said misguided attempt had landed said _under-aged_ vigilante in a hospital with a _severe_ concussion, _multiple_ abrasions and _quite a few_ broken bones.

I can't say that I relished in the thought of having been degraded from a murdering antihero to a reckless teenager who'd just gotten the shit kicked out of him, but I firmly believed that my ego suffered the most of all. Then again, my bruised ego and injured self aside, I swiftly realised that I had landed myself in quite a pickle.

First of all, due to a couple of broken bones on my part, I wasn't about to go anywhere for quite a while unless I wished to either injure myself further or fling myself out the window and kill myself. Then again, I swiftly concluded, if I ever tried such a stunt then I would no doubt end up being strapped to my bed _for my own safety_ or maybe even put into a medically induced coma so that my injuries would be allowed to heal in peace, and since I favoured neither I simply forced myself to stay put, even though I could tell that I was resting up on borrowed time.

I knew well that before long, someone would turn up to get me, but I did not know for sure whether that someone would be from the law enforcement, a crime syndicate, the Justice League or even social services. As you can imagine, I fancied neither, but I also knew that no matter how protective certain citizens of Blüdhaven may have become of me, the world would come and get me sooner or later, regardless of whether I was allowed visitors or not.

However, seeing to the fact that I was never a very idle person, I decide to get myself out of there before anyone else turns up to do it. I am still feeling rather woozy when I pull out all the needles and cords attached to me and I make sure to kill the alarms and the monitors to make sure they won't give me trouble. Pain blossoms up when the soles of my feet impact on the floor, but it helps clear my head up a bit so I'm not overly worried. Once I had managed to locate my regular clothes – they'd been washed up and repaired somewhere along the way – I shed the abominable hospital gown before going through the positively agonising task of dressing myself. My ribs protest against almost every movement I make, but I've had cracked ribs before and these have been set properly so I'm not worried; besides, it takes more than a few cracked ribs to kill me, as has already been proven.

Bringing a hand up to my face, I confirm that the domino mask is where it should be before I pull the hood up over my head and head towards the window.

I make it about halfway before a sudden blast shakes the building.

A minute or so later, the Joker announces his arrival through the speakers scattered across the building, informing us that he's got more bombs scattered around the building and that he will start killing off hostages one by one if I do not show myself within the next five minutes or so.

I am not a hero, not by any means.

I am a vigilante, but I don't just hunt criminals; I kill them, and that makes me a criminal and a murderer, but I've been called worse things in life.

I am not a hero, I know that, but I still turn, heading off in the other direction.

I know I'll probably die today, mostly because fighting with these injuries would equal suicide in the mind of any sane man… but then again, I am not all that sane now, am I?

I grew up as a street kid, attempted to reform and then I died, the first time around.

I woke up in the past, saved my predecessor from a life in misery and partially corrupted him to a life of crime, and then I died, again.

I woke up in a casket the second time around, buried six feet deep. I cannot recall how I made my way out of there, but once I was out, I went about and killed and killed and killed. I may have lost the last shreds of my own sanity around there somewhere, because I find it mysteriously missing as I, escorted by clown-faced henchmen, make my way up to the elevator which will bring me down to the madman who has already killed me twice.

They say the third time's the charm, and I wonder whether or not this time will be like all the others before it; I wonder if it will still be him armed with a crowbar and a bucket load or insanity or if he'll actually have a gun and shoot me this time around.

Unsurprisingly, I find myself rooting for the latter.

**- o0o -**

I don't think, I don't feel, I just am. I sit motionless, strapped to a chair, and my head hangs limply, just like my hair – matted with blood – hangs into my eyes and obscures my unmasked face.

I am alone, in the darkness, waiting for the madman to return, waiting for him to just end it, because I know he'll come; I know he'll be coming back for me, that he'll come back here to end it.

There is no one coming to save me, I know that, but in truth, I was never in much need of salvation anyway, was I?

The first time around, I died as an indirect result of my own foolishness.

The second time around, I died for just the same reasons.

And the third time around… well… you get the pattern, don't you?

**- o0o -**

Death changes you, and dying not once but three times ought to fuck you up real good.

Death changes you, and it's not always for the better, because death leaves no one untouched.

Death changed me, and in turn I changed myself and turned into a self-styled grim reaper, a decision for which I now reap the consequences.

Fate – or is it God? I really can't tell – has arrived to laugh me in the face and has decided to do so by appearing in the shape of the selfsame madman – the grinning psychopath of a clown – who has killed me off twice already.

Judging from the crowbar in his grip, I guess my luck hasn't improved much, but then again, I can't say that I ever even expected it would.

The Joker – the Clown Prince of Crime, the Harlequin of Hate, the Ace of Knaves – stand before me, I wonder whether or not the third time will really be the charm, whether death will actually be permanent this time around, but I don't get my hopes up; I gave up on hope a long time ago.

Hope, eh? Say, whatever do I have to hope for? Whatever do I do with it?

…You don't know either, huh?

In any case, I am about to reap the consequences of my actions.

However unwittingly on my part, I became a hero.

Hence, it is only befitting that I die as one too, tragically.

Death leaves no one untouched; it changes you and those around you, and not always for the better.

Death changes you; it fucks you up real good, inside and out, but that's just the way things work.

Shit happens, I suppose, and shit keeps on happening.

And then you die, and that should be the end of the story, but sometimes it's not, not if you're Jason Todd.

Even so, even the undead have to sleep sometime, and this time is as good as any.

**- o0o -**

I was not a hero, not by any means.

I was a vigilante, but I didn't just hunt criminals; I killed them.

I killed and killed and killed and got killed in return.

And that's all there is to it.

**- o0o -**

Or so I thought.


	2. Chapter Two

_And so, the continuation. I can't say that I was expecting this level of a response since I think I'm fairly unknown to at least some of you, but let's just say that I was delighted._

_In addition, I thought I might as well go ahead and warn you all; this chapter contains its fair deal of profanities, bad humour and… Jason talking about stuff he enjoys. Also, I thought I might as well warn you about his inability to retain one form of tense throughout; I did try to set about and correct that, but it proved way more challenging than I thought._

_Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**II**

**- o0o -**

"**The Death of the Red Hood"** the ageing newspaper headlines read, and I suppose he might actually be dead for real this time around.

Maybe Jason Todd is all that's left of me after all.

I always knew that I would never die peacefully, mostly because I have a strong will to live. It is an inherent thing, something which all street kids who live past a certain age possess, because that is the very thing – the very core of things – which keeps us alive. Due to our inherent will to live and our willingness to use any means to ensure our survival, we die violently – fighting – in one way or the other.

I think I may have heard from somewhere that you can take a beast out of a jungle, but not the jungle out of the beast or something like that, and considering that I can't help but wonder if the same principle applies to kids of the street.

Then again, it doesn't matter, I suppose, because I am no longer on the street. I am in Gotham, and I have only recently woken up after having spent the last three months or so in a coma. That's what people have been telling me at least, but I don't really care whether it's true or not.

In any case, the Red Hood is dead, at least according to the public opinion, even though at least a part of my old fan base insists that it's only a question of time before the Red Hood will turn up to haunt the nights once more.

Maybe I will, maybe I won't, but at the moment, I lean towards the latter.

Being someone's hero is tiring, not to mention hazardous, and quite frankly, I've had enough.

Besides, I doubt he – Bruce or the Bat or Robin for that matter – would let me go even if I wanted to.

The Red Hood is dead, yet his murderer roams free – or at least he does now, since he escaped from Arkham just a couple of days ago. The Bat attempted to keep this from me, probably under the impression that I'd run off and extract bloody vengeance if I knew.

I smile.

For a person who has spent so little time in my presence, he knows me far too well.

However, I know better than to go after the Joker unprepared.

Bruce leaves for a conference, Robin leaves for school and Alfred, good old Alfred, leaves for the kitchen.

I myself get up from the confinement of my bed – it's my old room after all – and leave for the bat cave, since I have a score to settle with the Harlequin of Hate and I intend to do so permanently, because I am sick and tired of getting killed by him over and over and over again.

He did manage to kill me a third time by the way, but that death wasn't permanent either.

CPR and adrenaline brought me back before I was sent headlong into a deep coma, and I can't help but wonder why I can die all the time yet never seem to stay dead like I should.

Then again, I suppose, maybe some mysteries are just not meant to be explained, regardless of how nonsensical and annoying they are.

**- o0o -**

I fully intended on hunting down the Joker – my mind had been set on this – however, for whatever reason, my feet steered me elsewhere.

Instead, I found myself walking through the more rundown part of the city, heading towards the place I had vague recollections of once having called my home. Perhaps it was curiosity that had driven me there; I was and had always been far too curious for my own good after all, seeing that it was curiosity – my innate unwillingness to live without tracking down my biological mother – that had led to my death the first time around, since I probably wouldn't have ended up in the Joker's grasp if I hadn't.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I have already died a time too many to care much for the danger.

**- o0o -**

What I found was a fatherless child caring for his drug-addicted mother. I can't say that either surprised me; back in my own time, my father was a petty crook who'd been sentenced to prison and never came back to us after that, mostly because he had already been killed by Two-Face by then, leaving me to take care of mother until she died of an overdose.

Back then, I had made my living by stealing and selling car parts, and when that was not enough, by selling myself. I can't say that I'm very proud of this, but I was young and desperate and it was a fairly easy – albeit degrading – way to make some quick cash.

The Jason I met did not seem to have gone all the way down that road yet, though judging from his behaviour I'd say that he was not all that far away from going there. It shouldn't have bothered me, but for some reason, it did.

As I have said, time and time again, death changes you, and it's not always for the better.

But, maybe sometimes it is?

**- o0o -**

I am not a hero, not by any means.

But, that in itself doesn't mean that I do not know how to act like one.

Besides, with me being the selfish person I am, I only ever do things for myself – or at least things which will benefit me in one way or the other. Maybe my younger self will one day come around to return the favour, but I don't get my hopes up. Besides, as already mentioned, I gave up on hope a long time ago.

**- o0o -**

In any case, perhaps saving my other self from a life as a thief and a part-time prostitute did provide me with some good karma after all, seeing that I had procured a gun within the week and had managed to take a shot at the Joker, hitting him right between the eyes and all.

Admittedly, and rather disappointingly on my part, the bastard survived, but he received brain damage and lapsed into a coma and apparently he is not expected to wake up anytime soon, if at all.

I don't care; he had it coming.

Admittedly, neither the Bat nor the Brat was very happy when they found out, but I can't say that I've ever cared enough about other people's opinions to care much about theirs.

**- o0o -**

For being a man of supposed justice – a hero, if you will – the Bat sure has double standards, both when it comes to regular super villains and when it comes to me. As for the former, he can beat them up and dump them back into either prison or Arkham – neither of which can hold them for very long – but when it comes to me, he can't seem to do either.

Oh, he has threatened to turn me in alright, especially so when he learned of my attempt to assassinate the Joker, but he still hasn't and in a way I doubt he ever will.

For one thing, turning me over to justice would definitely put him at odds with Dickiebird, and for whatever reason, I think he tries to avoid that as much as possible.

Evidently, he has beaten me up a couple of times, but that's training – for what, I do not know, since I really can't see him dragging me along to patrol the city, considering the fact that I am a recovering murderous psychopath and all. Then again, maybe he is training me as some sort of reassurance in case something happens to Dick, probably because he knows that whether I like it or not, I do care about the brat for some reason and have been protective of him in the past, ensuring my place as a wild card in case Batman ever finds himself in a situation where the Dynamic Duo is not enough.

I believe that's his vaguely formulated plan at any rate, considering the highly modified Robin costume I found down in the cave at some point. It, being much too big to fit Dick, could hardly have been done pre-emptively for the time when Dickiebird finally decided to ditch the pixie boots and the short-shorts; things just don't work quite that way.

For a costume, I supposed it looked pretty cool with all the red and black and all, but since it was a costume, I still found that it looked quite ridiculous. Honestly, what's wrong with these Kevlar- and spandex-obsessed freaks? I understand the need to conceal one's identity, just as I understand the advantages of wearing a bloody suit of armour, but I fail to comprehend why they are always – almost always – brightly coloured to the extent that they stick out like sore thumb. Then again, barring Batman and a few others, a lot of heroes are probably secretly a very attention-craving lot, or maybe they just dress in bright colours to make it easier for the criminals to spot them because they have a freaking target painted on their fronts or backs or their being in general.

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a reckless idiot armed with a spandex outfit and a severe hero complex, you know?

Dying really helps putting things into perspective, and dying has helped me realise the extreme lameness of quite a few of the things I admired during my years as Robin. Honestly, why do kids – not to mention grown men – find it so easy to idolise grown men in costumes, many of whom seem to wear their underpants on the outside?

Oh, laughing now, are you?

Thought that was funny now, did you?

But it is true, isn't it?

It's disturbingly true.

Then again, maybe those men are not specifically idolised for their ridiculous costumes, but rather for their selfless actions. Men – and women, and children, and the whole lot – should be defined by their actions, should they not?

Then again, if people should be defined by their actions, then I suppose I really would have to classify myself as a ruthless murdering psychopath, wouldn't I?

Nah, I don't do labels. Labels are restricting and useless; they hold no meaning, not to me, because whether I truly am a ruthless murdering psychopath or not, first and foremost, I am still myself and that's all there is to it.

**- o0o -**

Mildly ridiculous or not, it's a suit and I wear it for protection if I must, even if I do still wear reasonably normal clothes – as normal as hooded trench coat and combat boots can be considered to be – over it. It's mostly in black, but since I'm not going out as the Red Hood or anything the colour of my outfit shouldn't matter, not to me, not to anyone.

Five hours later, I make my return to the cave with a bloodied bird cradled in my arms.

The Bat is appropriately startled by the sight of us – horrified even, though with the cowl it's kind of hard to tell – to the extent that he even attempts to get up from his chair and put weight on his injured leg.

He should be happy, I suppose, because most of the blood isn't Robin's anyhow.

Besides, if he hadn't sent me out, he himself would have had to go and retrieve the bird… from the morgue. So yeah, he should be damn happy and disregard the fact that Harvey Dent is now in the same condition as the Joker – that is to say, comatose and likely brain-damaged.

He clearly isn't happy about my methods, but I don't really see him complaining much about my results once he has been able to discern that Dick will be making a full recovery – and that he isn't _dead_ or anything, but let's not go into that.

Then, for whatever reason, Bruce Wayne decides he wants to adopt me, and for once I am actually stunned by the man's stupidity. Once I recover my speech, I proceed by basically telling him to go fuck himself since I am just a few months away from turning eighteen and because I have no solid identity to speak of – no birth certificate, no nothing – because it would be just a tiny bit difficult to explain to people why the Hell there are two of me out there.

Evidently, with his level of resources and all, Bruce would no doubt have been able to fake one for me if I came clean and asked him to, but with all due honesty I really don't see the point of it. Besides, as I was sure to inform him, it really didn't make sense for him to suddenly adopt some stray teenager he'd barely known instead of let's say Dick Grayson – his legal _ward_ since _years_ back.

In the end, he adopts the both of us even though I can't really see why, and I still – up until this day – refuse to title myself a Wayne in any way or form. I am stubborn, yes, but that's just the way I am, and that's the way I've always been – not even death can change that, so what makes a mere mortal think he can?

For whatever reason, Batman bestows upon me the name Red Robin, a deed which once again makes me frown openly, which leaves me wondering about the man's sanity. Then again, considering the fact that his civilian self decided to adopt me for no viable reason, I guess I really shouldn't be asking myself such things.

Then again, I suppose I should've seen it coming; the Red Hood is dead after all, officially at least, even if Jason Todd is not. Hence, if I am supposed to set out and roam the night all dressed up, I obviously have to have some sort of ridiculous name to go with the costume as well.

Still, I won't deny that Red Robin does have quite a nice ring to it; perhaps because it reminds me of a time when life was less complicated, when I actually had something to live for and when I was a little less _dead_ on the inside compared to how I am now. I won't deny it, but simply because I won't deny it doesn't mean I have to like it.

What I do like however is the fact that I don't have to prance around in short-shorts and pixie boots. That's something – some minor improvement – at least, I guess.

**- o0o -**

A man like Bruce Wayne can do a lot of things, but order me around is not one of them.

I already have my doubts about the man's sanity, considering the fact that he adopted me and all, but this time around I really don't know what to say about the matter.

For whatever reason, Bruce has come to _insist_ that I start going to school and all, even though I have been perfectly clear about the fact that my background in the education system – or lack thereof – is a perfectly good reason for him _not_ to send me off to attend high school. Home tutors I can handle – barely – but high school? Are you bloody insane?

Bruce even had the audacity to claim that my lacking education put the family to shame – No really, Old Man, don't you think you should've maybe thought about that _before_ you adopted me and all? And yeah, I did have the audacity to tell him to go fuck himself; it has become somewhat of a habit nowadays.

Either way, a tutor was arranged and once that hag was done with me, Bruce sent me off to boarding school… overseas – imagine that?

I really should've killed him; I really should have taken a shot at him back when I had so many splendid opportunities to do so.

The moment I'm eighteen, I'm ditching this place, regardless of whether Bruce threatens to disinherit me or not; I was never in it for the money anyway, seeing that I can't say I ever agreed to this arrangement in the first place.

**- o0o -**

I have to admit that I am surprised when Bruce turns up in person to fetch me a few days before my planned departure. Or rather, it is Bruce – his face, not his person – who turns up to fetch me, but the person behind it is the Bat through and through.

The Bat, foregoing any sort of dillydallying Bruce would probably have engaged in, goes straight to the point.

For whatever reason, the Bat is now a whole lot more involved with the Justice League business than previously, and for whatever reason, a team of younger heroes – the Young Justice, aka the Team – has now been formed to deal with covert threats and for whatever reason, Robin is now a part of it.

Tch. Young Justice?

It takes a whole lot of effort on my part not to laugh. Just when I thought the spandex-wearing idiot league's naming sense couldn't get any worse, they come up with something like that. It's laughable, really, in a really pathetic kind of way.

Still, I can't help but wonder just what the Hell drove the Bat to accept Robin's admittance to said team, seeing that he is supposedly overprotective when he wants to be and all.

Maybe, just maybe, he wanted Robin on the team simply because though scarce, the Boy Wonder does actually possess just a sliver of common sense – which is a whole lot compared to the amount many other heroes possess – and as such, his presence and analytical skills on a team would probably ensure that they did not go off and get themselves killed all too soon in the game.

Then again, what do I know? I've been in exile for months and a lot of things may have changed since then.

Either way, it is definitely a bad sign when Daddy Bats goes out of his way to seek my help, and even more so when he asks me – no really, he _asks_ me – to take up the mantle of Red Robin (figuratively speaking, since my current costume does not have a cape) again and make myself available to head out to assist this new team on short notice.

Really, it makes me wonder what he could possibly be planning…

If he, for whatever nonsensical reason, is attempting to bring me into the fold of the Justice League, then I'll definitely kill him, even if I have to make Dick an orphan again to do it.

**- o0o -**

Five weeks later, I get sent to infiltrate a secret research facility in some godforsaken outback of the world, because apparently the Young Justice team had been sent there a bit earlier and hadn't been heard from since, prompting Batman to give me a call since for whatever reason, those super-powered spandex-wearing freaks are simply too busy with some other greater threat to go and save their little team of sidekicks by themselves.

And no, even though I may sound a bit bitter I am by no means as bitter as I have the right to be.

The reason, you ask?

My homicidal urges, amoral behaviour and multiple death experiences aside, I am a perfectly healthy hormonally frustrated young man and as such I have every right to be bitter when a call from my estranged father – I wonder, can I even refer to him as such? I mean, it wasn't like we were ever on good speaking terms to begin with, right? – disturbs me right in the middle of some of the best sex I can ever recall having.

And, yes, I have sex. Why are you so bloody surprised about that?

As a red-blooded male, I obviously have urges – I'm not asexual or anything, even if I do not automatically ogle anything that walks by with a nice pair of melons or a nice ass. I have urges, yes, though not necessarily to reproduce (obviously, since that could create some serious complications) but rather to enjoy myself. I like enjoying myself.

Okay, seriously, stop smirking.

Anyway, there I was out in the outback right in the middle of nowhere, scouting out the terrain and the secret underground lair I probably had to dive into. I am not enjoying myself by any means.

Spotting a couple of guards from my hiding place, I naturally whip out my sniper rifle – because no one really cares about the henchmen anyway – and take them down in a matter of seconds. No alarm is raised and I am satisfied with my progress, even if I know that this means I have to hurry up and move along before someone realises what's going on.

_Then again_, my cynical inner voice informs me. _They probably know already and wait for you to enter so that they can ambush you…_

Contrary to popular belief, paranoia is actually your friend most of the time, at least if you're in this line of business; if you're not careful enough, you're going to get yourself captured and killed someday, hence it's far better to be paranoid to some extent than not to be. Since paranoia is such a good friend of mine, I make sure to listen to it and adjust my plan of action to the information it feeds me, because getting captured and killed – again – would really suck.

With that in mind, I discard the heavier pieces of artillery and proceed in stealth mode once I've made sure that my suit fits the way it should and that the domino mask and the hood are in place and will stay there until I decide otherwise. Bringing my hand up to my modified mask, I press a hidden button to switch from thermal vision to regular night vision, taking a good look at my surroundings before I proceed. Fancy little gimmicks – makes me wonder why I couldn't have had any of them during my own time as Robin.

Admittedly, I hold very little love for the Bat himself… but the stuff, the stuff I love. I imagine it's about the same feeling normal people get when they get a new cell phone or a new computer or something, or like me when I get my hands on a really nice gun.

Anyways, Batman's crafty little devices do certainly come in handy at times, because even if they are – in a sense – just fancy toys, they can still incapacitate and even kill if they are used correctly. Now, I sincerely doubt the Bat would appreciate it if he learned that I made use of his devices for such devious purposes, but what the Bat doesn't know doesn't hurt him. Besides, with the Bat being the paranoid person he is, he is definitely on to me already, even if he hasn't been able to prove anything; lately, I have become quite crafty in terms of getting rid of all the evidence.

Oh, and those guards I shot? I dragged them away into the dark, swiping whatever useful stuff I could quickly get my hands on. I could've taken a uniform, but I settled for taking an access card and a pinkie – yeah, a _pinkie_. How else was I supposed to bypass the finger-print scanner at the entrance? I'm not master hacker like Robin for goodness sake.

In any case, I got in and I already have blood on my hands – gloves, if you're going to nitpick.

Am I a terrible person if I dare say that my lousy day just got a whole lot better?

**- o0o -**

Once I had succeeded in infiltrating the place, finding the sidekicks themselves was not all that difficult, especially not if one followed general logic – criminal logic, that is.

I can't say that I was very surprised to find the lot of them locked into separate cells and them themselves strapped up on the wall in the typical manner – you know, like crucifixion… without the spikes.

Now, where was I?

Yes, they were all trapped and kind of helpless, and from the looks of it they weren't in such a good shape either. No really, it was pathetic, especially since it took me less than fifteen minutes to, you know, make my way there and incapacitate the people standing guard. It was almost a bit too easy, but then again, I was just getting warmed up and since I don't do anything halfway if I can avoid it, I had also planted a few of my homemade bombs around the place, you know, because I was still kind of in a bad mood and blowing stuff up makes it all so much better.

Either way, the sidekicks looked appropriately shocked when I finally stepped out into the light, and Robin, well… he just cackled weakly, bringing a mild frown to my face. The kid had a minor head injury – that much was evident from the caked blood in his hair – but damn, that laugh was creepy, way creepier than I remembered. I moved to set him free first, and it did take some effort because my knowledge about technology is on a need-to-know basis, but eventually I got him free and the brat had the audacity to hug me, totally ruining my bad boy image, but since we were in his cell and no one else really saw it, I guess it was alright; he was likely a bit concussed after all, and people do strange things when they are concussed. I also took notice of the fact that he had – finally – ditched the pixie boots, and the short-shorts, which was a great improvement overall.

Anyhow, with Robin setting to work to free the rest of the Justice Brats, I set about to plant my remaining explosives right next to the main computer, and we finished at around the same time. Straightening up, I came to rest my eyes on them and believe me, they were a sight for sore eyes. Not that I actually cared or anything; I just needed to make sure they left the building alive and after that, they weren't really my problem anymore.

That being said, for some reason I found myself under some quite intense scrutiny and wow, no one was taking command and no one was ordering the team to vacate the area. They had seen me set up a bomb for goodness sake; had they absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Eventually, I decided I might as well start dishing out orders, since the sooner they were out of here, the sooner I would be able to get back as well. "Get the Hell out of here. I have a dozen bombs to detonate."

It was actually a bit more than that, but who cares about such small details?

**- o0o -**

I did get to blow up my bombs, all fourteen of them, and watched the place go up in smoke from a safe distance. Evidently, since the brats were still around, I did check with Superman's teenaged clone whether there were any people still in the building before I pressed the switch, but that was mostly a formality since I would've done it either way.

Once that was over with, Robin somehow managed to convince me to hitch a ride with them back to their headquarters at _Happy Harbor_. Surely, it was going to piss quite a few people off, but it was either that or dumping all my weaponry before commandeering a vehicle to the nearest international airport and taking a commercial flight home, simply because the Bat didn't trust me with that "bat plane" of his. Besides, I had never ridden a spaceship before, and with such a splendid opportunity presenting itself with an invitation and all, who would I be to refuse?

The downside to this was obviously the intense scrutiny of the Justice Brats and of Robin chatting amiably until my ears threatened to fall off all while I attempted to ignore him to the best of my ability. Still, all that staring; it was actually starting to piss me off and I began to feel oddly tempted to snap at them something along the lines of "Why don't you snap a picture? It lasts longer!", but having become reasonably accustomed to the trends of the youth of the time, I knew better than to do that since at least one of them were extremely likely to pick up on the offer; they probably all had some sort of mobile phone cameras after all.

Speaking of which, it was the rapidly advancing technology which tipped me off to the fact that I had not – as I had initially expected – just been thrown back in time. Instead, I had somehow managed to land myself in a completely different dimension. Go figure.

This should probably have freaked me out, but I've died a time too many to freak out over nothing. Besides, I've been here for several years already so it hadn't been too hard to get accustomed to the thought of it, and if my dimension-hopping theory really was correct then it would certainly explain why I felt like such an alien at times, compared to regular human beings and all.

Anyways, my possible dimension-hopping aside, we had arrived at our destination and the latch opened up to reveal – wait for it… – the Boy Scout himself, looking just about as constipated as I remembered him, his arms crossed as he watched the Justice Brats make their way out. Robin exited last, alongside me, and I must admit that I did enjoy the way Big Blue's facial expression changed at the sight of me. He looked like he was seeing a ghost, since you know, just because I didn't wear a red hood anymore did not mean that he wouldn't recognise me in a black one. Either way, I flipped him the bird for good measure before moving past him as he stood temporarily frozen in shock, striding up to the Bat as he arrived.

"I expect full compensation for this," I announced and he smiled – no really, he did – even though it's much more of a smirk than anything, likely directed at Big Blue as the idiot's head snapped up at the realisation that the Bat had enlisted a criminal – me, that is – to save their precious little sidekicks.

"You get to keep your guns," the Bat gruffly responded and I shrugged, considering it's probably the best deal I was going to get with the Justice Geeks in the room.

I made my way out before the shouting competition started.

**- o0o -**

I am not a hero, not by any means.

I may not have super speed, super strength or X-ray vision, but at least I have a few useful gimmicks and a whole lot of common sense.

I am a vigilante, but I don't just hunt criminals; I kill them, but only when no one's looking since I'd seriously hate to have to be forced back under parental supervision.

I am not a hero, not by any means.

But, that in itself does not mean that I don't know how to act like one.

**- o0o -**

I am not a hero, not by any means.

I kill far more people than I save, and in the end I don't really save anyone.

I stand beneath the canopy a slowly dying tree, my back leaning against the thick trunk of it.

The sky is grey, riddled with heavy rainclouds, maybe even with a hint of thunder in them. It hasn't started raining yet, but from the way I see it, it has already been pouring down for a while now.

Catherine Todd – a rehabilitated drug addict – stands by the edge of the hole in the ground into which the coffin containing the mutilated remains of her son has already been lowered. Her face is drawn and her eyes are dry, but I can still hear her wails echoing through the silence, even though she has not uttered a single word during the entire funeral.

I am not a hero, not by any means.

I do not know how to act like one.

I can save no one, because I cannot even save myself.

Even so, I keep on trying.

**- o0o -**

That aside, for whatever reason, my homicidal hide is once again sent out as backup to the Young Justice team, only this time around, I am not alone.

My companion – just about as displeased as I am, but showing it far more openly – is Speedy, Green Arrow's former sidekick. No wait… It was Red Arrow now, wasn't it?

Either way… what's with all the red all of a sudden?

First I start going about as the Red Hood, and then I get myself killed.

Then, Batman suddenly decides I would make an awesome last resort and gives me the name Red Robin.

And here I am, paired up with Speed… – Sorry, _Red Arrow_ – of all people.

Is anyone else seeing a pattern yet?

Then again, it could just be a coincidence, I suppose…

After all, in the JL, there's a Green Lantern and a Green Arrow and god knows what else.

Where was I going with this again?

Oh yeah, right. My severely displeased companion…

For one thing, he hates the fact that he is still being ordered around even though he has officially broken away from GA and the JL as well as far as I'm aware.

Secondly, he hates the mission, but whatever concerns he may or may not harbour for the rest of the sidekicks – aka the Team – weighs up for it.

Thirdly… well… he obviously hates the fact that he's been paired up with me to act as a potential backup, since he feels that he can't trust me – which is very sensible of him, since I do have to quell a sudden urge to stab him when he starts whining about having been paired up with a murderous rogue like me. In either case, not that it is likely to bring him any sort of consolation whatsoever, I can't say that I trust him all that much either. Neither can I say that I like him all that much, which is a pity, since we could've passed the time by discussing our seemingly mutual hatred for the JL and their holier-than-thou attitudes.

Oh well… You can't have everything in life, can you?

I sigh, adjusting the frequency of my communicator.

**- o0o -**

Six agonisingly slow hours later, we receive our cue to head in, and forty-five minutes after that, we encounter the Justice Brats, weary but by no means in any need of further assistance. Shrugging, I turn and prepare to make my departure, but I am called back before I am able to. After an additional fifteen minutes and a great deal of persuasion, I have a robin with a sprained ankle clinging to my back with a lopsided grin, arms wrapped around my neck. Really, the nerve of him; I really should've just let him fall off of that building back then. But alas, I did not, and that is just one regret of many.

Either way, my badass image is obviously ruined for real this time around, or at least until this moronic lot see me back in action – real action – getting my hands dirty and all.

It is at times like this that my paranoia – my best friend, you know – kicks in and wonders whether or not Robin is actually faking getting hurt all the time just so that he can get an excuse to have me either carry him around or tend to his injuries, because I'm really good at that stuff despite popular belief; I had plenty of training after all, during my own time as Robin. Either way, for once I decide to disregard paranoia, and once the brats have been returned to base and I am ready to head off to my own, I find myself with a rather unlikely companion.

Oh yes, _Speedy _– Red Arrow, whatever – decides that he wants pizza and for whatever reason, he decides I want one as well. Then again, who would I be to say no to free food, since he's paying for it and all?

**- o0o -**

Two weeks later, Roy Harper turns up at the doorstep of my newly attained crib and installs himself as my new best friend for some strange inexplicable reason, all while my fingers keep on itching closer and closer to where I keep my guns hidden. Just one quick shot to the head, I reason, just one quick shot to the head and then it'll be over with, yet I do nothing and my only outward reaction consists of a slight twitch.

I never ask him how he found me – anyone with an Internet connection and two brain cells to rub together would've been able to do that, given enough time – and neither do I ask him why, because he is obviously feeling a bit lonely and left out since his friends are all on the team and don't seem to realise he's feeling just a bit excluded.

Either way, we talk. Then we drink. Then we talk some more. Then we spar. Then we drink. Then we nearly get ourselves killed. Then we play poker and talk some more before almost simultaneously crashing on the floor. Then finally, hours later, we wake up with the hangover of a century and yet he is the one to suggest that we should do this all over again and regularly even. I want to shoot him then, kind of, but my head hurts too fucking much so I just groan and roll over.

**- o0o -**

People have dared to suggest that the aforementioned day and the encounter which took place on it was the start of a beautiful friendship, and just as people have dared to speak their mind about things which really don't concern them at all, I have dared to suggest that they should fuck off and get their eyes checked out, because there's nothing even remotely beautiful in this "friendship" of ours. Then again, I suppose that could depend greatly on the perspective of the one looking. Some idiot has even dared to suggest that the two of us have some kind of "bromance" going on and I honestly – honestly – had to keep myself from stabbing them in the eye with the pen I had been twirling between my fingers in a random act of idleness.

Regardless of the label, there's nothing beautiful whatsoever within it.

Would you consider the relationship consisting of two guys randomly meeting up with the sole goal of getting hammered and wreaking some havoc before ultimately crashing either back at my apartment or off in some random alley or on some random rooftop even remotely beautiful?

No?

…

What do you mean?

…

What the fuck is wrong with you?

…

That aside, I… have a stalker.

No really, I do.

I have a stalker, though it's not of the usual psychopathic megalomania quality – I think? – but rather that of a self-styled wannabe follower who keeps on following me around armed with a high-tech camera.

At first, I thought my paranoia was just causing my mind to start playing tricks on me, but eventually I arrived at the conclusion that after that many observations, at least a few of those ought to have been real even if my mind had fabricated the rest.

I have a stalker, and it's a kid to the boot. From the glimpses I've caught of him, he's not even a teenager, but I could be wrong because he's really fast – not of speedster variety, but fast enough to avoid being spotted whenever I turn around to glance behind me.

I have a stalker – a picture-taking stalker – and I am not entirely sure as to how I should be dealing with that. On one end, I find it incredibly creepy and mildly disturbing and on the other, I find it… odd, in a disturbingly cute fashion I cannot quite understand.

For one thing, anyone can tell that it's not a normal kid, not by any means, because it takes skill and guts to stalk a person like me. Then again, it is fucking dangerous to stalk a person like me and since I am under the impression that the kid knows a whole lot about me, I have simply come to draw the conclusion that he has some serious lack of self-preservation. That, along with his apparent persistence, makes me think he would probably make an excellent hero if he ever tried out for the job, seeing that they're all pretty thick-headed, persistent and severely lacking in self-preservation when it all comes down to it.

Then again, he could just be harbouring a death wish, or a crush, though the latter alternative makes my skin crawl for some reason.

At any rate, I have a stalker, and said stalker is on a good way to get himself killed for every additional minute he spends in my immediate vicinity, and _no_, _I'm_ not going to kill him; _I_ don't kill kids. However, quite a few of the enemies who may or may not seek me out while I'm out on patrol do have a thing for murdering them. Still, I decide not to meddle, and I actually don't, harbouring the thought that maybe, just maybe, he will just lose interest and go away if I just ignore him for long enough.

So far, I've had no such luck.

He is still following me around.

**- o0o -**

I did say I had one stalker, but apparently I have two of them now.

One is a kid and the other seems to be a teenager, but the seeming age gap aside, neither is making this very easy for me.

Then again, I suppose it doesn't help that both of them are running around in red hoodies, meaning that I pretty much only catch a glimpse of a red hood and then they're gone again. I don't follow, since I harbour no particular interest in hunting them down, but the first time I encountered one of them firsthand and got a reasonably good look at them, I actually froze up a bit when I recognised the style of dress. It's generic, but there are two of them and they're both stalking me. I am not an idiot, so I obviously draw some conclusions, but even so I do very little about it.

Eventually, I get called in by the Bat and he inquires – with the bat glare and all – whether or not I have set out to corrupt some youths to continue my career as the Red Hood. Obviously, I am mildly offended overall – clearly, he was still quite miffed at the fact that I had already managed to bend Goldie towards my immoral ways – and obviously, since the Bat went through the trouble of accusing me and all, I decide to get to the bottom with the problem before it escalates into something a bit more problematic than two kids following me around. Maybe.

**- o0o -**

I land on a rooftop, crouching down low to protect myself from the stormy winds and the whipping rain they brought along. The arrival of the storm and the downpour had both been sudden, and I made my retreat, deciding that it simply wasn't worth it to continue to patrol during such weather conditions. I take cover from the rain and the winds where I can find it, and overall I am not overly picky about such things. Once I have determined that the amount of coverage I've found is adequate, I slouch against the wall, opting to wait for the storm to calm a bit before attempting to make my way back; using grappling hooks under conditions like the aforementioned is not very recommendable, seeing that rain makes things slippery and the winds can bring you off course and in combination both heighten the risk of you falling to your death.

Either way, that's where I find myself, out on a rooftop in the middle of a stormy night, alone – or at least that's what I had thought until my eyes caught sight of some nearby movement. My ingrained instincts cause me to reach for a weapon, but something stops me and once I catch sight of him – the younger of the brats that had been stalking me as of late – I immediately forget all thoughts I might've had about attacking.

**- o0o -**

The kid – I don't know his name, though he seems eerily familiar for some reason even though I'm positive I've never met him in my entire life – is sleeping on my sofa, huddled up in blankets. He is still shivering a bit, but by no means as much as he was back when we encountered each other on that rooftop.

With all due honesty, I have no fucking idea as to what possessed me to bring the brat back with me. Maybe it was the miserable sight of the drenched little rat – wearing the red hoodie and all – that made me pause and think things over for a bit. Maybe it struck a chord in me for whatever reason, forcing me to actually consider my options before heading off. Either way, I ended up bringing the kid along, and hence I find myself with said kid sleeping in the living room.

Had I been a responsible adult, then I probably would've called in the police or something. Then again, I can't say I've ever considered myself as such and besides, there's no way in Hell I'm letting any members of law enforcement over my doorstep without a warrant, seeing that I have quite a few illegal items lying around. Besides, if any parent is irresponsible enough to allow their kid to roam the night and stalk me, they certainly deserve to worry about their kid's whereabouts.

I sigh, taking a sip out of my cup of coffee, grimacing slightly when the cold bitter liquid makes it down my throat.

The next morning, the brat is gone again, but there is a polite note waiting for me on the fridge. Reading it, I learn that my mini-stalker's name is "Tim", and that he is apparently sorry for the inconvenience. I just snort, wondering how a normal and reasonably sane person would react in the same position.

What a weird kid…

**- o0o -**

A few weeks later, I wake up with the hangover of a century, only to find that – hey, guess what? – the brat is back again. Oddly enough, my first instinct is not to shoot the unexpected intruder in my home, perhaps because I find him in the kitchen standing on top of a chair before the stove making pancakes of all things or perhaps because my migraine prevents me from thinking straight. Probably both.

Either way, I collapse into one of the chairs and take the cup of coffee which is offered, reasoning that it probably isn't poisoned or anything since the brat would've killed me in my sleep if he was out to do it since he's probably had plenty of opportunities to do so, considering the ease he seems to have in entering my home uninvited.

The hooded brat seems a bit fidgety though, eyes warily darting back and forth between what he's doing and the entrance to the living room. I frown mildly at this, slowly piecing things together in my aching head. Soon afterwards however, the answer decides to present itself as someone groans loudly from said direction, and I vaguely recall that Roy and I were probably out the night before, making trouble for ourselves.

Speaking of the Devil… said archer soon materialises in the doorway, leaning heavily onto the frame of it with one hand, cradling his head with the other. "Hey, Jay… Got any-…"

Silence.

Roy Harper blinks slightly, rubbing his eyes, probably to see whether or not the mirage of the miniature Red Hood will disappear or not, and obviously it doesn't, even if the brat has also paused, looking like he is about to bolt at any given moment. I roll my eyes at the spectacle, feeling a bit more like myself now that the caffeine has begun kicking in.

"We've been through this before, moron," I drawl. "They are in the same place they've always been."

The arrow's eyes snap to me in an instant and then back to the brat who at some point had removed himself from the vicinity of the stove in favour of shuffling closer to me. "But…"

"Go," I snap at him, because headaches make me even moodier than usual.

By the time he gets back, I have already sent my miniature stalker on his way. And no, I did not kick him out – technically, I just opened the door for him.

**- o0o -**

As soon as I have gotten Roy out of the way, he turns up again in my sofa, tinkering with some sort of electronics. For several minutes, I do my best to ignore him, but before long annoyance wins over practicality.

"Don't you have places to be – people to annoy?" I snap at him as I pass him on my way to take a shower. "This isn't a day-care centre."

He looks up at me then, looking mildly startled for a second before his facial expression turns oddly blank. Then he just shrugs mildly and goes back to whatever he's doing.

He is still there when I come back out.

**- o0o -**

His name is Tim, Tim Drake. Or was it Timothy?

Why do I even care?

Either way, he is a kid – a frighteningly intelligent one, but a kid nonetheless.

He is a child, yet he terrifies me – imagine that, the former Red Hood being terrified by a child. Okay, so maybe he doesn't terrify me a whole lot normally, but at times I can't help but notice how outrageously creepy and fucking dangerous he is or at least has the potential to be. Bearing no apparent weapons, most people would consider him harmless; I consider him armed to the teeth. It's his intelligence that has the potential to make him lethal, because with a head like that on his shoulders he can pick up just about anything from the street and make it into a weapon if given the incentive.

Then again, it is not his current self that terrifies me, but rather the potential I see within.

If anyone, say the Joker or Two-Face or just about any greater villain worth their name, ever got their hands on him and managed to make him cooperate, then Batman wouldn't last long and neither would any other hero.

Either way, for some utterly bizarre reason, he decided to pick me as his main object of interest after having followed Batman and Robin around for an undefined amount of time. I still don't know what initially sparked his interest in me, but from the way he keeps following me around I think it must've been something major.

For some reason, the fact that I didn't know ticked me off, and since I was already on some sort of first name basis with the brat, I thought I might as well ask him.

Big mistake.

Some mysteries… are just not meant to be explained, and this particular one was one of those.

I allowed curiosity to get the better of me, and against better judgement I tagged along with my little stalker to meet with my second stalker, completely unaware of the fact that I was in for the ride of a lifetime…

**- o0o -**


	3. Chapter Three

_Is this the end, you might ask? Well, originally, it was… mostly due to Jason entering a state of absolute noncooperation (you'll see what I mean by the time you reach the end). However, as it turned out, someone else was willing to fill in a few of the blanks that Jason oh-so-helpfully left us with, hence there'll be at least one extra chapter, though with another narrator as the aforementioned has entered the aforementioned state. As for what happens after that, it's anyone's guess, really. Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**III**

**- o0o -**

I always knew there would be consequences to my actions, but I had never really given much thought to the inevitable consequences my continued existence would have on the time-space continuum. It would probably suffice to say that my existence has screwed it up big time, in simple layman's terms. I was never very "sciency" from the start and inter-dimensional stuff is generally beyond my normal realm of comprehension, and as such I'll leave that part to the existence otherwise known as "the Expert".

Who is the Expert, you say?

…

That's a damn good question; even now, I don't know.

Anyways, remember how I went on about that kid being like the creepiest kid ever?

This guy is at least three times worse, if not ten.

Just for the record, our initial conversation went something like this:

Him: _"You're Jason, Jason Todd, right? I mean… you're the Jason that the Joker…"_

Me: _"Crowbar. Explosion. Yeah, that's me."_

Him: _"I knew it."_

Me: _"…And you are?"_

Him: _"Oh… I'm Tim, Tim Drake."_

Me: _"…Just like the kid?"_

Him: _"Yes… he is me – an alternate version of me – after all, just like the late Jason Todd of this universe was an alternate version of you."_

Me: _"Yes… and you are?"_

Him: _"… At the moment, I'm not entirely sure as to what I should call myself. Back over there, I used to go by Robin just until fairly recently…"_

Me: _"…"_

Him: _"Yes… I was the third Robin for a couple of years… and then I became something else."_

Me: _"… Red Robin?"_

(Coincidence, anyone?)

Him: _"I didn't want to, but Dick had already passed the title of Robin onto someone else… he fired me right off the bat, the asshole."_

Me: _"Wai-wait… Dick fired you?"_

(Seriously… what the-…?)

Him: _"In my time, Dick is the new Batman since Bruce went missing… I went looking for him shortly after that and that's what landed me here… kind of."_

Me: _"And Dick passed the title onto…?"_

Him: _"Damian Wayne, Bruce's illegitimate son with Talia al Ghul, the daughter of Ra's al Ghul… aka Batman's arch nemesis besides the Joker. What a dick."_

(Double what the fuck? My mind has been blown.)

Me: _"…Sounds like things went to Hell in a hand basket after I dropped dead."_

(No shit.)

Him: _"You don't know the half of it, but yeah, someone must've fucked up…. Still, with you, Bruce never really stopped looking… since there was no body to bury. You're still listed as missing back there."_

Me: _"Joy."_

(Truly. Completely unnecessary too.)

Him: _"Do you want to go back?"_

Me: _"…No. Whatever gave you that impression?"_

(No way in fucking Hell. Never ever. Fuck off.)

Him: _"Actually… we need to talk."_

(No.)

Me: _"We're talking right now."_

Him: _"Still, we need to talk."_

(No, we don't. Please go hide beneath a rock for another couple of years and leave me in peace to go get myself drunk enough to forget all about you and your stupid theories…)

So, yeah… anyhow… we did talk, and through him I learned a whole bunch of stuff I could really have gone without. I suppose I could summarise them for you, but I'm feeling a bit lazy at the moment, so you'll have to do with the transcript… or something to the like.

In essence, this is what took place:

Me: _"So… you basically mean that the universe risks collapsing at any moment?"_

(What the fuck, dude? What the fuck?)

Him: _"A minor imbalance must've caused your fall through the dimensions, which in turn caused an even greater imbalance since you existed in two places at once within the same dimension. That in turn caused a rift, one which I fell through. It has probably broadened since then, and it's only a question of time before it tears all the way through and fucks everything up. But… I have devised a theory…"_

(To Hell with your theories!)

Me: _"To repair it?"_

Him: _"To restore the balance. If balance is restored, the rift will probably close on its own."_

(And what makes you think that?)

Me: _"And how the Hell do you intend to do that?"_

Him: _"Our dual presences are the root of it. We exist in two places at once, when we should only exist in one. Hence, if two of us – one Jason Todd and one Tim Drake – are sent back to our original dimension, balance should be restored."_

(I'm so not liking the sound of this…)

Me: _"… Why do I have this distinct feeling you're gonna try and send your younger counterpart back in your place?"_

Him: _"That's right."_

(No.)

Me: _"Seriously?"_

Him: _"Yes…"_

(That's just… wrong. Seriously.)

Me: _"And what about me then? You wish for me to accompany your kiddie self back or do you want me to dig up this dimension's Jason Todd and send your kiddie self over there with a trash bag filled with what remains of my counterpart's earthly remains?"_

Him: _"The latter."_

(…)

Me: _"…You're seriously fucked up in the head, you know that?"_

(My mind has been blown, again.)

Him: _"I fell into a Lazarus pit. They're famous for making people go bonkers."_

(No shit.)

Me: _"Fair enough."_

Now… I can't say that I've ever heard of these "Lazarus pits" before, but from the description he provided of them and the effect they apparently have on people, I'm actually kind of glad that I have yet to fall into one of those, and that says a lot considering the fact that I seem to have attained some sort of semi-immortality along the way. Said semi-immortality does also seem to have done a number on my sanity, as has already been noted, hence I feel like I can relate to my semi-insane successor to the title of Robin – and to the title of Red Hood as well, considering recent events.

Maybe I should just go ahead and start referring to him as "the Imposter" or something?

…What?

It just feels… appropriate somehow, you know?

Besides, it's either that or Red Hood and there's only one person who'll ever wear that name with style.

Maybe Red Dragon or something? Red Bird? Red Wing?

Nah, too much red.

Or maybe Red Hood is the most appropriate after all, considering the outfit and all. Or Red Hoodie.

In any case, fuck this shit. I'm off to get myself stoned (as in drunk, not as in stoned by literal terms. Just saying; don't get any strange ideas).

**- o0o -**

Right… where was I?

…

Right.

I went with Little Red Riding Hood to see the second Red Hood impersonator, whom turned out to be the former Robin III, but got it pointed out to me that they were actually two different versions of the same person, Tim Drake, and that the second Red Hood was actually a cross-dimensional traveller adhering from my own dimension.

Okay… I can deal with this. Or not. This doesn't make any sense in one sense, yet it makes a disturbing amount of sense in another. Confusing, huh? Welcome to my world.

I mean, really? How are you supposed to react to something like this?

Anyhow… the Imposter made me an offer that I couldn't refuse, and that's the reason as to why I am stuck with him, in a manner of speaking.

As things turn out, Tim's – the kid's – parents are back in town again, leaving the Imposter temporarily without a place of residence, leaving me with yet another unwelcome guest crashing on my couch. Without permission, I might add, though with his younger alternate self's track record I really can't say that I expected anything else of him. Hence, I was not all that surprised when I returned from a mission to find the Red Hood sitting on my couch, tapping away on an unfamiliar laptop, but just because I wasn't surprised didn't mean that someone else – namely Roy Harper – wasn't.

"Dude," said archer sees it prudent to inform me. "There's a guy dressed like the Red Hood in your living room. What the fuck's up with that? What happened to the miniature one from last time?"

I roll my eyes at the display, making my way up to the aforementioned intruder to smack him on the head. "Imposter, I know you like dressing up in a costume, but keep it within reason."

I know I sound like a reprimanding mother hen, and it hurts my soul to admit it. A lot. And when my soul hurts, in turn, I find myself wanting to hurt somebody, but for once, I decide to exercise restraint.

"Imposter, meet Roy. Roy, meet Imposter, my temporary roomie."

Imposter gives the surprised arrow a slight wave before going back to whatever he is doing on the computer.

Roy turns, looks at me weirdly and finally speaks up. "Dude, what the Hell?"

As if I hadn't asked myself that very same question quite a few times already…

**- o0o -**

I have no idea how and I have absolutely no idea why the three of us end up playing poker.

I also have absolutely no idea as to how or why the three of us end up in some casino, exiting it way richer than previously.

I also have no bloody idea as to how the three of us end up in bed together – NO, none of THAT, get your goddamn mind out of the gutter, you imbecile. Just for the record, we may have gotten a bit drunk or high on something, but I can assure you that nothing – N-O-T-H-I-N-G – happened, that is, besides us coincidentally passing out on the same bed. To the extent of my knowledge at least… and I do have a sizeable blank in that particular portion of my memories. Oh damn, I sure as Hell hope nothing happened.

Either way, my self-appointed best friend has now seemingly allied himself with the Imposter – and recently dubbed him the Red-Hooded Imp, to the latter's obvious dismay. Admittedly, the name has potential, so I'm probably just going to go ahead and start referring to him as that, at least until I figure out something better to call him.

The Red-Hooded Imp.

I snort inwardly.

It suits him… a lot.

…Or at least better than Red Hood Junior does.

**- o0o -**

For whatever reason, Bruce – Sorry, my mistake – the Bat gives me a call and a video one at that. Then again, I wonder whether or not I should actually call this a "call", seeing that the whole thing is just a stupid excuse to expose me to the nastiest bat glare I've seen for quite some time. However, the medium through which it is transmitted dulls the effect of it quite marvellously, so I find no reason to squirm beneath it as I casually ask my estranged paternal figure and ex-mentor to hurry up and deliver his message or whatever since I can only waste so much time on waiting for stupid bats to get down to business. This remark of mine only serves to darken the scowl on my former mentor's face, but lo and behold, the man finally opens his mouth and… growls?

Recognising the sound of my former mentor's imminent rage, my fingers are already trailing towards the Off-button. However, before my fingertips home in on their target and before I find myself at the receiving end of my former mentor's rage, Tim Drake – the Imp – chooses the moment to wander into the room all dressed up in his modified Red Hood outfit. Noticing the stony-faced bat on the screen, he actually freezes up for a moment. I roll my eyes at this display, turning around in my chair to snap at him.

"Imp, learn how to knock, god dammit!"

**- o0o -**

Batman is a great detective, or so I keep hearing over and over and over again, and since he's such a great detective and all, he ought to figure me out soon enough – if he hasn't already. Either way, great detective or not, from what I can see, the Bat has finally met his match in the shape of Alvin Draper – aka the Imp – aka Tim Drake. How so, you ask?

That's a very interesting question, but I will not be very thorough in my answer.

Hence, I'll sum it up pretty nicely for you.

Here we go…

Since the Bat is a master detective and abnormally intelligent and all (at times), Tim decided to come clean about the fact that he was a visitor from an alternate dimension and an apprentice of an alternate Bat… blah blah blah, plz help me get back home, kthxbye.

…I can't believe I just wrote that.

Oh well.

Either way, he got the Bat onboard on working on some sort of cross-dimensional portal thingy, and began tailing said detective rather than me, which was awesome in itself. I have to say that I was positively delighted at the fact that the Imp has found someone else – someone a bit more suitable – to stalk. Now, I would've been much happier if the Bat didn't have this awesome idea to include him in this forming group of Outsiders – i.e. me and Roy; I was drunk and joking when I suggested it, but apparently someone took it a bit more seriously than I did.

Hence, I find myself the unofficial leader of the Outsiders, a black-ops unit funded by Batman, because apparently one additional hero unit besides the JL was not enough. Then again, why should I care?

I don't.

Period.

Or maybe I do, just a little, because I have far too little to do at the moment.

**- o0o -**

Truth to be told, I should've known all along that this Outsiders idea was a stupid one.

Scratch that. I _did_ know and I was only joking when I mentioned it, but for some reason people failed to understand that.

Yes, I am upset.

You'd be upset too if said Outsiders decided to occupy your apartment on a day-to-day basis, and especially so if they brought unwanted company.

I have no bloody idea where the Hell they picked up that scantily-clad copper-skinned redheaded alien chick, and I can't say that I care much as long as she – it, whatever – doesn't become a permanent trespasser in my apartment, but for whatever reason someone – I strongly suspect either the Bat or the Imp – seems to have it out for me and as such included this Starfire person in my recently formed little club of vigilantes.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She is certainly attractive – she's so hot that her hair seems to be on fire, god dammit – but it gets kind of hard to appreciate the view when she and her… assets are all up close either in your face or pressed against your back as she leans over. Unlike Roy, I am not a man who thinks solely with his… tool. Still, it does get kind of hard to focus your attention on what you're typing on your laptop when there's an alien – a Tamaran princess, no less – draping her arms around your shoulders. Honestly, I believe someone did this just to torment me.

Anyhow, perhaps a few of you still remember what I said a while back – that I have sex and like enjoying myself and all that. Yes?

The thing is that there is a limit to everything and though I don't mind enjoying myself I do mind it when some random alien chick with nymphomania decides I'd make an awesome fuck-buddy, and regardless of my continued refusals of her countless invitations she doesn't seem very keen on taking no for an answer. I have tried – Oh God, I have _tried_ – to get her to go off and torment Roy or the Imp, but for whatever reason it doesn't bloody work.

"Kory, remove yourself."

Starfire – also known as Koriand'r – persists in her unwelcome invasion of my personal space. I just wish she'd find someone else to bugger.

**- o0o -**

Every man has a breaking point, and seemingly immortal or not, I have mine.

The morning I wake up with the hangover of a century – feeling like the living dead – to find a very naked alien princess in the bed next to me, I fail to bring myself to care much for it. It was just sex after all; simple, spontaneous and unconditional sex. No strings attached or anything.

…

Oh God, I hope I had enough sense to make use of a condom. I seriously don't want any zombie-alien hybrids running around with my DNA in them if I can help it. Besides, the Imp would obviously pester me about my persistent wrecking of the timeline and all that.

Anyways, potential future worries aside, the batty old Bat just called, far grimmer than usual. After hearing the reason for it, I could not help but sympathise with him, strangely enough.

That being said, I'm going out on a mission with the Imp.

Loads of fun, or not. (Damn it, I hate the guy.)

**- o0o -**

Well… as surprising as this may sound, I did have loads of fun.

How so?

Well…

I think it started out with some generic master plan to either destroy or conquer the world and whatnot, crafted by some generic criminal mastermind somewhere out there whose name I can't even seem to have bothered remembering. Anyhow, this generic master plan involved some sort of doomsday device – then again, all generic evil master plans for world domination or destruction do involve such an apparatus, right? – which was going to break the fourth wall or something or other. I can't say that I actually paid much attention to that part during the briefing neither before nor after the event had taken place, but with all due honesty I had my reasons.

In any case, the generic super villains behind that particular plan made one _huge_ mistake which tipped the scales to their disfavour; for whatever reason, they decided to kidnap Robin – _Goldie_ for goodness sake – with the intention of screwing with the cape community and to offer up his body as some sort of sacrifice or whatever (once again, I wasn't really playing attention to that part).

In any case, it would suffice to say that I was pissed off once I had gotten the memo. Imp seemed mostly emotionless – on the outside, at least – but I had enough rage for the both of us.

Anyhow, cue the inevitable rescue mission rolled into a sneak attack.

I won't bore you with the details on that one.

…

Oh, you want to hear all about it?

Well, sucks to be you, 'cause I'm not gonna tell you the details on how I totally wiped the floor with them… with some minor assistance.

I did have loads of fun, despite the grim premises. But hey, the world was saved, so who cares?

I realised something then too – I had an epiphany or whatever you call it.

Imp is going to have a field day with this…

**- o0o -**

Got bored and went out for a drink. I left you some recordings.

**- o0o -**

"… _Weren't you going to going to stay here?"_

"… _I thought about it, but I realised… it's just not the same."_

"…_And?"_

"_This is just not my place to be, I guess. This world already has a Tim Drake and it really wouldn't be fair to send him back in my place…"_

"…"

"_So… why are you going back as well? I thought you really liked it here…"_

"…_As much as I may like this place, I don't exactly belong here either."_

"…"

"_Besides, after all this crap, I sure as Hell feel like I have served whatever purpose Fate or whichever dragged me over here to accomplish, and as appreciative as that thing is it's only a question of time before I get thrown back anyhow."_

"…_Perhaps."_

"_But really, whichever sick force of the universe would drag me over here to play the hero? If anything, being who I am, I am rather ill-suited for the job, aren't I?"_

"_But you still did it, didn't you?"_

"_I suppose."_

"_Maybe it was because unlike Bruce and unlike me or anyone else, you had what it took… to be ruthless when needed."_

"_I am a street kid; of course I'm ruthless."_

"_If you say so."_

"…"

"_So, have you sent your goodbyes?"_

"_Yes. Have you?"_

"…"

"_Just send the kid an email or something. It's not that hard."_

"_I left an encoded digital journal for him. That ought to keep him busy for a while."_

"_You think?"_

"…"

"…"

"_Ready?"_

"_Whenever you are."_

**- o0o -**

Odd as this may sound, I am honestly relieved when I wake up on the floor of an ever familiar cave with the Imp still lying knocked out next to me. Apparently, judging from the clues and the items on display, we had actually managed to make it back to our original dimension and intended destination, and I do happen to consider that as quite an accomplishment in itself. I get up, steady myself and then make my way up to the bat computer.

A groan is heard from behind me but I pay it no heed as I instead try to get myself into the system, only to discover that I have no such luck since some idiot has been in there and changed the password. However, before I get to relieve my rapidly building frustration on the thing, the Imp drags himself over there and starts typing rapidly, apparently dead set on hacking himself into the system. It takes him far too little time to do so and suddenly he leans forward, his face paling dramatically.

"Shit," he says.

I look at the screen and at the live video feed, and I can't help but feel very inclined to agree with him. "Shit indeed," I agree and reload my guns before heading off to help myself to some additional bat gear.

**- o0o -**

It is a familiar scenario overall, with a shitload of hostages, numerous bombs, henchmen, Batman and Robin and a Harlequin of Hate just to top it all off. Yeah, it's one of those scenarios with the Joker. Yeah, I never actually imagined I'd miss them back in that other dimension – you know, the one where I put a bullet in his brain and all. Still, knowing just how boring life could be otherwise, I decide to exercise some level of restraint and not get things over with too quickly. I stay in the shadows and silently take aim. Five shots ring out in the otherwise empty warehouse and the Joker collapses to the floor with five bullet holes in a few strategic and very hurtful places. I reload, firing off another couple of rounds while taking care of the rest of the henchmen before I step out from the shadows and make my way over to admire my work more closely. "Damn, that felt good."

It did feel really good, even as the Bat and his newest chick – neither of them looking very impressive from the way they were tied up – looked at me in clear surprise and with a great deal of suspicion. "Who-…?"

"The Ghost of Christmas Past," I drawl, my patience already spent. "Who do you think I am?"

"You…" the Joker gurgled, twitching on the floor.

I kick him hard and then proceed to use my foot to keep his head pressed against the floor as I aim my gun at him. "I could put a bullet in your head right here and put an end to it all, and I have to admit that I'm honestly tempted to do so."

I am more than tempted; I have lived for this moment and this moment alone.

_**#"Red Hood, stand down."#**_

And as such you just figure somebody had to go and ruin it for me.

"Aw, come on, Birdie," I say a bit flippantly, keeping my gun aimed right where it is. "Don't be such a killjoy; I've wanted to do this for ages."

And ages and ages and ages.

_**#"Red Hood, while in this particular case I do condone to violence, keep it within bounds."#**_

Tch.

I was never a very good listener.

I press the trigger, only to hear it click, signalling to me that I have temporarily run out of bullets. Honestly, what's this with me running out of bullets unexpectedly?

Sighing, I resign to my fate. "Roger that."

I measure another kick. You know, for the mere kicks of it.

**- o0o -**

"_Red Hood to Birdie, have the remaining bombs been disarmed?"_

_**#"Yes."#**_

"_Then get your ass over here. My mission didn't include freeing any bats."_

_**#"…You're a dickhead, you know that, right?"#**_

"_Well I sure as Hell am not a hero – unlike you – so get your ass over here and do your thing."_

_**#"Remind me why we're friends again?"#**_

"_Dude, we're not friends. Get that disgusting thought out of your head."_

**- o0o -**

I leave as soon as Red Robin makes an appearance. I walk, allowing my feet to lead me.

I end up in a familiar cemetery, looking down where a familiar headstone should be.

There is none.

It is raining heavily and I am drenched already, my clothes clinging to my skin.

I feel cold, yet I cannot bring myself to care.

A familiar voice calls out to me and I turn, my eyes widening slightly in surprise at the sight of Bruce – my father – standing there, looking just about as drenched as I feel. I don't question how he recognised me; the Imp obviously spilled his guts the first chance he got, being the idiot he is.

Before I know it, Bruce has already closed the distance between us and I find myself enveloped in a hug. Part of me – a very claustrophobic part of me – wishes to break free and run off and disappear into the rainy night, while another part – after all these years – wants to cling to him and never let go. I am torn between them, so I settle for the middle ground and remain where I am. I close my eyes, feeling the rain wash over me along with an odd feeling of relief.

He has come for me.

At last.

**- o0o -**

My name is Jason, Jason Peter Todd, but no one really calls me that anymore. Only Bruce ever calls me Jason; even Bruce's demon brat calls me Jay nowadays, even if he did persist in calling me Todd for a long, long time.

I am the Red Hood, and I am here to stay apparently, as a living proof of how death can fuck up a person, and moreover how death can fuck up a person several times over.

That being said, maybe – after numerous trial and errors – several wrongs can really make a right after all? I mean, who knows, really?

Either way, I have decidedly wasted far too much of my spare time on you people and I by no means feel any obligation to waste more of it, even if I do have it in spades nowadays.

This is the end. If you want a continuation, then screw you because I ain't giving you one, period. I'm sick of this; I'm sick of it all.

…

What are you still doing here? Shoo, shoo. Go away.

…

Seriously? Do you want me to put a bullet through your brain or something?

*click*

Tch. Out of bullets again, huh?

**- o0o -**

Time and time again, life can be a huge disappointment.

Then again, compared to death, I prefer life any day.

Now… where was I?

Oh yes.

*click*

I brought a spare.

**- o0o -**


	4. An Extra Chapter

**- o0o -**

– **An Extra Chapter – **

**In Which Tim Drake Gives His Own Version of the Events**

**- o0o -**

First of all, I can't believe you managed to talk me into doing this, because this is seriously one of those events in my life that I would rather put behind me altogether.

Second of all, I can't believe you managed to talk Jason into this thing in the first place, and third of all, I can't believe you are still alive and visibly unhurt after doing that.

Would there happen to be any sort of hidden mental trauma lurking about? If so, then I would really like to know beforehand, because I've had it with all these bloody psycho-… all these gravely mentally disturbed and often thoroughly sadistic maniacs who keep popping up in my life over and over and over and…

Wait… where was I?

Yes.

I still can't believe you talked me into this, but I guess the damage has already been dealt, so we might as well get this thing over with so that I can forget all about it and move on with my life…

First of all, regarding the subject of my predecessor Jason Todd, what would you really like me to say? He went missing and was presumed dead for a long time, only for me to find that he had ended up in a parallel dimension courtesy of an explosion which really should've killed him.

As for how I ended up in said dimension, I do believe that the subject has already been touched upon, but I suppose I might as well elaborate.

Long story short, Bruce had gone missing and was presumed to be dead by most people in the cape community. I knew he was alive, but none of my friends or family believed me; as such, I went solo and went looking for him, only to incidentally uncover an unknown network of assassins, nearly getting myself killed by the aforementioned before Ra's al Ghul – whose pawns had been stalking me – sort of had me captured and brought to his lair (one of them, at least). It would suffice to say that I did not exactly appreciate being kidnapped by ninjas, even though said ninjas also ensured that I did not bleed out courtesy of an acquired wound in my abdomen. Either way, a fight eventually ensured – me, in costume, versus a shitload of ninjas – and with all that blood loss messing with my senses and physical coordination, I somehow managed to trip over my own feet, right into a Lazarus Pit.

Clumsy, yes.

Then again, perhaps it was fate. Blaming it on fate is better for my ego than attributing it to my own clumsiness. Either way, I fully expected to either drown in there or be hauled up by al Ghul's men, so imagine my surprise when I found myself washed ashore on some very familiar beach…

Initially, I was pretty disoriented; crossing dimensions and timelines can do that to you. However – and quite thankfully, I might add – I did have the presence of mind to ditch the costume, or at least the more… eye-catching parts of it.

By then, my mind – ever analytical – had already set about constructing possible scenarios for just how the Hell I had ended up back in the immediate vicinity of Gotham, when my last memories clearly stated that I had been somewhere in Iraq or thereabouts, battling ninjas next to a steaming green pool of damnation.

My scenarios?

In hindsight, I fail to see the relevance of you knowing them, though on the other hand, I also fail to see the harm in it. Hence, a pick of some of the major ones are featured below.

Okay, here goes.

Scenario Number One: I had died and gone to the Afterlife/Heaven/Hell, which looked suspiciously much like the outskirts of Gotham.

Seriously, no comment.

Scenario Number Two: I had gone insane (with or without the help of a Lazarus Pit).

Again, no comment.

Scenario Number Three: A combination of the aforementioned.

See above.

Scenario Number Four: I had been drugged.

See above.

And so on, finally leading up to Scenario Number Forty-Two: I had been transported to some alternate timeline and/or dimension.

Don't ask me about the rest of the previous forty-one scenarios. Please. As I have already mentioned, I'm trying to put this all behind me.

Anyhow, what followed on my agenda was – obviously – to confirm or disprove these possible scenarios.

How, you ask?

Once night had fallen, I put my costume back on and took a stroll, a stroll which ultimately led me to a very familiar graveyard.

Once there, I kept a keen eye out for familiar names and dates, dreading them at the same time. Most of them were the ones I remembered, but then, I happened upon one grave which seemed fairly recent judging from the elegant gravestone and the seeming absence of grass to cover up the thick black soil. Something about it bothered me, and once my eyes came to rest on the inscription, I was baffled.

Todd, Jason Todd. Day of Birth: unknown. Day of Death…

To me, it was a date of the distant past, of the time before I was Robin, and even before I uncovered the identities of the so called Dynamic Duo.

To say that I was shocked by this revelation was a severe understatement.

Then again, it would suffice to say that it was overrun by disbelief when I crouched down, detective instincts kicking in, and was soon able to conclude that the grave had not only been filled quite recently; it had also been disturbed – possibly even dug up – even after that.

But why? By whom?

Finding myself in some sort of past – not wounded anymore courtesy of the Lazarus Pit's healing properties, but certainly winded, alone, utterly confused and starving in addition to being drenched due to a sudden and utterly unexpected downpour – I did what most people would have done; I went home, as in, I went back to the place I could recall having lived in prior to me getting involved in this hero business. As much as I would like to claim that there was some sort of logical thinking behind this decision, there probably wasn't; back then, I was operating more on instincts than logic, and those instincts had already concluded that I really shouldn't try my luck at breaking into the bat cave before I knew more about the situation I had apparently ended up in.

Don't ask me how I got there; I honestly don't know how I got there, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor in my old room to the somewhat blurry sight of my past/alternate self dabbing my forehead with cold water.

I was pretty much out of it for quite a while – partially due to exhaustion, partially due to the both mental and physical strain of being transported into another dimension – but when I finally regained my senses I thanked higher powers for my younger counterpart's seeming lack of common sense and overbearing curiosity in the sense that he _hadn't _alerted the proper authorities upon finding me in his home.

I never told him outright who I was, but I imagine that he saw the similarities and drew his own conclusions from that. Besides, even if he did know who I was back then, it'd hardly matter nowadays.

Nevertheless, my counterpart proved invaluable to me, even after I had regained my health. For one thing, he was the one who started bringing me newspapers while I was still bedridden, and he was also not late to share his interests with me, as well as his obsessions. By then, he had managed to assemble an entire boxful of newspaper clippings, the vast majority of which revolved around Batman and said guy's nightly companion – Robin, the Boy Wonder – in one way or the other. I have to admit that an odd sense of nostalgia hit me then, when I found myself looking at them. The robin in this world was blatantly Dick Grayson – I'd recognise the grin anywhere – but even so, what struck me the most was probably the hint of sorrow I could detect in his features, a kind of sorrow I myself could not quite recall having seen back in my own days following them about.

It was around then that I – through my counterpart – learned that the way this Dick Grayson had ended up with Bruce Wayne differed from the way the one I knew did. Details were scarce, but eventually I was able to piece together that this Dick Grayson had been institutionalised for weeks without Bruce turning up to get him, following which he had disappeared for months, only to later resurface by Bruce Wayne's side as his ward. Those months… what could he possibly have been doing?

I thought I had an answer when I found an investigative report regarding the assassination of Tony Zucco. Later, after a bit of hacking on the laptop I was oh-so-helpfully provided with, I unearthed a police report claiming that the missing Dick Grayson had been found and rescued by Batman from an incident with the Joker, an incident during which said boy's companion – a teenager only identified as Jason – had perished.

I instantly connected the dots between this "Jason" and the gravestone I had encountered earlier, and the connection was only strengthened when the newspapers begun to feature notices of sightings of Batman and Robin in Blüdhaven, chasing a vigilante called the Red Hood.

Back then, the connection I saw wasn't all that solid. As a matter of fact, it was probably more of a hunch than anything. However, this hunch of mine proved accurate later on.

Newspaper headlines eventually proclaimed the death of the Red Hood at the hands of the Joker, but I knew better.

A few months later, a Red Robin surfaced, just as Bruce Wayne announced his intentions to adopt not only Dick Grayson, but also his newly attained charge Jason Todd. I would be lying if I said I was surprised when he did, seeing that I had since long confirmed this Jason Todd's identity as not only the former Red Hood but also as the current Red Robin. With that kind of info at hand, there was really only one thing I needed to investigate before deciding my next move, namely whether or not this Jason Todd had any sort of connection to the one who was still listed as MIA back in my own dimension. In hindsight, you people probably figured that I was immediately able to confirm such a connection, which I wasn't, though I did suspect it.

You have to remember that I had already concluded that I had somehow managed to land myself in an alternate timeline in an alternate dimension, a conclusion which did prepare me to accept the possibility of an older Jason Todd. However, said individual's seemingly miraculous revival from the dead not only once but twice did seem rather peculiar, to say the least. When I found out about the existence of a younger Jason Todd, I had my answer. Then, the issue which remained on my part was how to approach the other.

Believe it or not, but it was actually my younger counterpart who suggested following him around in red hoodies. If not for the possible benefits, I would have discouraged my younger counterpart's somewhat stalker-ish tendencies, but at the time, I did think it would be a good idea to get Jason at least somewhat used to our presence before approaching him directly, seeing that he had given indications on numerous occasions that he did possess a fair deal of paranoid and potentially violent tendencies.

With said tendencies in mind, I did actually actively discourage my younger counterpart from making any sort of direct contact with him, but in one way or the other, they apparently encountered each other anyway – on a stormy rooftop, no less – a meeting which apparently led to Jason bringing the kid home with him, allowing him to spend the night there on the couch. I have to admit that I hadn't been expecting that kind of behaviour – not from him, at any rate – but I was even more surprised at the level of attachment my counterpart came to develop towards him.

Either way, Jason's subsequent involvement with my counterpart eventually led him to me, and I provided him with a rudimentary explanation of the situation we were in and provided a rudimentary theory on how to solve the so called problem at hand – aka the imminent collapse of said dimension, among other things.

I can't say that he was very happy to hear that, just as I can't say that he was very happy to see me in the first place, and even more so when I had to temporarily crash on his couch for a bit to avoid discovery by my younger counterpart's parents.

While over there, I got to know the Roy Harper of that dimension. Over there, said archer also bestowed upon me the – hated – nickname Imp, short for the nickname Jason had given me, the [Red-Hooded] Imposter. Lovely, huh?

Anyhow, then, I accidentally managed to out myself when I walked in on a video call between Jason and Batman, or rather, I did not _really_ out myself, but I realised it was only a question of time and all, now that Batman had laid eyes on me – in the flesh, sort of.

In short, I knew I would probably have to spill my guts eventually if I wanted some sort of assistance in – you know – solving the imminent crisis at our hands. Hence, I told him the truth – though I omitted chosen parts of it, mostly those involving Jason. However, seeing that this was Batman and all – a different one compared to the one I knew, but still very similar – I'd figure that he'd already figured Jason out ages ago and simply refrained from confronting him on it for one reason or the other. I don't know why, and quite frankly, I doubt it even matters.

Either way, he did include the both of us in forming a team of Outsiders, perhaps to subtly point out that that's exactly what we were – outsiders, ones that didn't actually belong. Then again, I happen to know for a fact that he did consider naming us the Outlaws, but I guess he didn't want to give Jason any further ideas on how to practice his personal brand of vigilantism.

A partially symbolic gesture or not, I have to say that I had a great deal of fun in the team, even though it was a temporary constellation and even though the time we spent together proved very short. As for why I rather enjoyed being a part of it, I can only speculate. Maybe it was because it gave me the opportunity not only to get to know my estranged predecessor, but also to get to know the alternate Roy and Kory, or maybe it just felt good to be a part of a team – of something, at any rate – after all the time I spent alone, chasing Bruce's ghost around the world with Ra's and his League of Assassins at my heels (among others).

Yeah, ghost – in a figurative sense, not literally. I had already managed to secure evidence of his continued livelihood and all. But, seeing that he was somehow lost in time just as I was somehow lost in an alternate dimension, I didn't really think about him all that much back then, since I had enough problems of my own to deal with.

Oh yes, problems.

Well, Jason's refusal to cooperate was one, but the major one was me. Thrown into a world where my loved ones were still alive and well, I actually found myself considering the alternative to send my alternate self back in my stead. It was a foolish thought, I make no attempt to deny that, but something about that world just felt… right? I mean, truth to be told, I wasn't even sure I had a place to go back to – the Mansion was still in shambles to the extent of my knowledge, my parents and most of my friends were dead and I had lost my position as Robin to the usurper. Even _if _Bruce had managed to return, I had little doubt he would have his hands full with Damian, and I have to admit that I thought there'd be a certain honour in becoming known as the second Robin who didn't come back.

Throughout the years, during late nights down in the cave, I vividly recall seeing Bruce sitting there before the computer, having shed his cowl, staring intently at the screen, just as I can vividly recall the time I myself spent in Jason's old room, regularly cleaned but otherwise exactly the way he left it.

In the end, maybe I was just envious of him, or maybe I wanted to be more like him and thus prove myself worthy of being commemorated in such a manner. Even though Jason Todd was dead to the rest of the world, Jason had always been alive and would always be alive – if not in reality, then within Bruce himself.

So yeah, I was envious; jealous even.

If going out with a bang – or in my case, with a splash – was what it took for me to be remembered, so be it; I had already been stripped of my rightfully earned position and already been cast into the shadow of my assassin-trained successor, so at least this way I could go out while I was still shining brightly as Red Robin instead of just slowly fading into obscurity.

Dark thoughts, yeah, I know, but we all have them at some point, and I – of all people – am not an exception.

Now you might wonder exactly who or what managed to set me straight, right?

Believe it or not, but it was actually Jason who did it, even though he is by no means the greatest therapist in the bunch… or perhaps he is – perhaps he is actually rather brilliant at it, through his physical _(read: violent)_ approach?

In any case, seeing _him_ – a person who's been through even more shit than me – grudgingly accept his responsibility to set things right again instead of taking the easy way out (like me), actually made me pause and think, which in turn made me realise just how selfish I had been up until that point.

Evidently, you can't be all selfless and goody-goody all the time (that is, unless you're Dick Grayson, apparently), but there's a limit to everything (besides the aforementioned). Obviously.

Right…

As for the so called Doomsday Incident, I have little else to add; Jason pretty much covered it all, even though he did slight my involvement not only as a fighter but also as a tactician. Then again, after all the trouble I've caused him, I think I actually deserved that one.

Getting back home proved to be less of a hassle than I had anticipated, probably because I practically had someone else build the device for us. Needless to say, it still accomplished its purpose and brought us back in one piece, right into solving someone else's mess and into resolving one of the Joker's multiple hostage scenarios with the least amount of damage and casualties.

It would suffice to say that we managed – mostly because there were two of us, and because we were actually cooperating (sort of…), coordinating our respective actions and maybe first and foremost, because our presence was entirely unexpected.

The element of surprise and whatnot, you know?

In any case, I still had to stop Jason from killing the Joker. If not for the fact that Batman and the little de-…Damian were present, I would probably have turned a blind eye to it and feigned ignorance about it if questioned. But alas, it was not so and as such I did feel it was my duty as a bat to stop him. I'm actually rather surprised I managed to do so, seeing that he could've easily pressed the trigger in my physical absence. Then again, knowing him as I do nowadays, I'd put my money on that he had either run out of ammo by then or just suffered some other kind of technological malfunction.

Either way, the day was saved – in Gotham, at least – and ended in some mildly awkward family reunion, at least once Nightwing turned up and Bruce returned, dragging Jason along.

And then someone – some highly meddlesome individual who shall remain anonymous – decided that Jay and I would definitely benefit from some therapy to cope with the stuff we'd been through, and that's when you came into the picture. Now, I have to admit that I was a bit sceptical to begin with, but afterwards I do feel just a tiny bit better about the way things are. Then again, most of the stuff responsible for that is hardly anything of your doing.

First of all, my best friend's alive again – which is a great improvement – and I regularly kick Damian's ass in sparring (only to get my own ass handed to me by Jay and Dick, but that's highly irrelevant).

Second of all… I just feel strangely at home nowadays, like I'm a part of something – a real part of something – instead of just the third or fifth wheel and whatnot.

Third of all… well, off the record, I gained a "new" brother (sort of) and in addition, I also gained insight into said brother's mind.

Oh yes, I did hack your records.

No surprise there, huh?

As for what happened to my alternate self, he apparently continued the legacy, stepping up as the new Robin when the alternate Dick ditched the colourfulness of Robin for the black and blue of Nightwing.

How do I know all of this?

Well, believe it or not, but my alternate self did manage to somehow, with or without help, send a freaking suitcase – made out of some alien metal – to me. Opening the thing was a hassle, but then Jay turned up unexpectedly with – _guess what?_ – the key, leading me to the perfectly natural conclusion that this had been planned long beforehand and featured at least some degree of cooperation from Jay.

Then again, I would say he was just as surprised as I was when the thing clicked open to reveal a shitload of photographs and newspaper clippings, all of them neatly dated and their backsides thoroughly commented on, along with a bunch of letters neatly enclosed in envelopes, five of which were addressed to Jason and four of which were addressed to me.

No, I will neither disclose the sender nor the content of those letters.

Why?

Why _not_?

As for the pictures… well, Jay certainly had a mild freak-out at the one featuring a smirking Red Arrow standing alongside Cheshire – you know, that crazy female assassin – with _(wait for it…)_ a baby in his arms, proudly held up for the camera.

However, it seemed as though the thought of Roy reproducing with a crazed assassin wasn't all that unbelievable to Jay – he only snorted at it, looking like he had rather expected that kind of outcome – and it was only once he had read the backside of it that he honestly blanched and started swearing under his breath. I didn't ask what it was all about, but I do have a hunch and I'm not sharing it with you, period.

As for the other pictures… well, maybe later, if at all, in which case I'll email you.

This is Tim Dra-…Wayne, signing out.

P.S. Just off the record, a fine piece of advice: Don't try to publish this in any shape or form, because if you do and Jay finds out about it, I'm totally giving him your home address.

Cheers.


End file.
